The hostess seated us in a corner booth, tucked away from the other diners, with a view of the small garden, lit up with fairy lights, visible through the window. She handed us menus, recited the specials with practiced ease, and disappeared with a promise that our server would be with us shortly.
I stared at the menu without seeing it, acutely aware of Graham across the table, watching me with that patient intensity that had always made me feel seen in ways I wasn’t sure I wanted. I twisted Gran’s ring at my finger, nerves doing their best to make me feel on edge.
“You’re fidgeting,” Graham said, amusement coloringhis voice.
“I’mnotfidgeting.” I was one hundred percent fidgeting. I shifted in my chair and glared at him.
“I’m just... this is strange,” I admitted. “Being here with you. Like this.”
“Strange bad or strange good?”
“Strange...strange.” I kept my eyes on the list of pasta dishes. “I haven’t been on a date in a while.”
“This isn’t a date. You were very clear about that.”
I looked up sharply, but he was grinning, clearly enjoying himself.
“Have I mentioned that I hate you?”
“No, you don’t.” Again, that easy smile lit his handsome face, and his confidence would have been annoying if he wasn’t just so damn attractive.
Our server arrived—a young man with a cheerful manner who introduced himself as Marco and seemed genuinely delighted to be serving us. He took our drink orders—wine for me, sparkling water for Graham—and left us to peruse the menu.
“I believe I mentioned that the carbonara’s excellent, as is the risotto, I’m told,” Graham said. “In case you were having trouble deciding.”
“How do you know so much about this place? I didn’t think you got many nights off to go out?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Or is this where you bring all your dates?”
Graham’s lips quirked.
“Lachlan brought Sophie here, and they raved about it.” He shrugged. “I’ve been wanting to bring you for a while now.”
Marco returned with our drinks and took our food orders—carbonara for Graham, mushroom risotto for me—and left us alone again with the weight of everything unspoken.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, surprising myself. I took a steadying sip of my wine, easing the tension slightly, and met Graham’s eyes across the table.
“Always.” That was him. Always steady. Always there.
“Why haven’t you given up on me?” I rushed the words out in a whoosh of air, but I figured, what did it matter at this point? We were both dancing around what we wanted to say, so at the very least, maybe I could start to understand him more.
Graham went still, his eyes softening at the edges as he watched me carefully. This was probably the most honest conversation we’d had in years.
“What do you mean by that, exactly?”
“I mean...” I gestured vaguely between us. “This.Us. Whatever this is. I ended things years ago. I’ve turned you down more times than I can count. I’ve watched you date half the women in the Highlands?—”
“That’s a slight exaggeration.” Graham shook his head ruefully. But I just edged forward.
“—and you’re still here. Still asking me to dinner. Still looking at me like...” I couldn’t finish the sentence. He looked at me like I was worth fighting for.
Graham was quiet for a long moment, but when he spoke, his voice was rough.
“Do you remember that time at school? When Jamie McAllister was giving you grief about your mum being a single mum?”
The questioncaught me off guard.
“I remember,” I said, leaning back to take a sip of my wine. It wasn’t a favorite memory of mine.
“You were standing in the corridor outside the library. I was coming back from football practice, and I heard him before I saw him. Saying all that shite about your mum.”
