“Agnes.”
I looked up.
“One dinner,” he said. “That was the deal. We don’t have to talk about feelings or futures or any of the things that make you want to run. We can just... be. Two old friends sharing a meal. Can you do that?”
I should have said no. Should have gotten up and walked out and put an end to this madness before it went any further. Indecision warred.
Sighing, I picked up my fork.
“The risotto better be as good as you promised.”
Graham’s smile lit his whole face.
“If it’s not, I’ll personally write a strongly worded letter to the chef.”
“Och, because that would work at your restaurant?”
“I mean, the letter would go in the bin, but I’d figure out a nicer way to tell him. Have you seen the lad? He’s terrifying.”
I snorted, but some of the tension eased. Maybe I could fumble my way through this dinner, after all, though all I could think about was how earnestly Graham had just confessed his undying love for me. And now I was meant to dig into risotto and talk about the weather?
But somehow, we managed it. Graham told me about the latest drama at the pub—a tourist who’d insisted that Scotch whisky was basically the same as bourbon and nearly started a riot among the regulars. I told him about the shipment of rare books I’d received last week, including a first edition of something that had made me actually gasp out loud when I’d opened the box.
“What kind of book warrants a gasp?” Graham’s eyes lit.
“An 1847 edition ofWuthering Heights, in original cloth binding, with light foxing and exceptionally well-preserved pages.”
“I have no idea what most of those words mean, but you look so happy that I’m going to pretend I’m impressed.”
“You should be impressed. Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“Tell me.”
So I did, launching into an explanation of Victorian publishing practices and the Brontë sisters and why this particular copy was significant. Graham listened with what appeared to be genuine interest, asking keen questions in all the right places, and I relaxed despite everything.
This was what I’d missed. Not just the sex—though goddess, I missed that too—butthis. Easy conversation and the way Graham could make me forget to be guarded. The simple pleasure of sharing a meal with someone who actually wanted to hear about the things that mattered to me.
“Do you remember,” I said, swirling the last of my wine in my glass, “that summer we found the old cottage in the woods? The abandoned one with the caved-in roof?”
“The one you were convinced was haunted?”
“Itwashaunted. There were definitely ghosts.”
“There were definitely bats. Which, to be fair, did seem ghostly at the time.”
“You screamed louder than I did when they flew out.”
“I did not scream.” Graham’s eyebrows drew low over his forehead as he glowered at me. “Men do not scream.”
“You screamed like a wee lass and grabbed my arm so hard you left bruises as you dragged me out of there.”
“Bloody hell, woman. I was protecting you.”
“From bats?”
“From potential vampirism. You have no idea what a bat bite could have done to you. I think it was quite heroic of me.”
I laughed—the kind that bubbled up from somewhere deep—and Graham’s face lit up at the sound.
