He was already heading for the driver's seat. "Somewhere that ain't Larkspur," he called back. "You can pick the music."
I got in.
I was still smiling.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
The July heat offthe Bozeman pavement hit different than Larkspur—more of it, bouncin' off storefronts and concrete instead of just bakin' into dirt and grass. Calvin had her sunglasses on and was movin' at whatever pace she felt like movin', which was slow, and I had zero complaints about that.
She stopped in front of a shop window. Looked at somethin' inside. Moved on without sayin' what it was.
I followed as we made our way toward our dinner spot.
The restaurant was Rhett's suggestion, which I'd never admit to Calvin because she'd give me endless shit about not bein' able to find a place on my own. Cloth napkins. Three different forks. A candle on the table doin' its level best to set a mood. Calvin looked at the table setting when we sat down, looked at me, and saidwhich fork?in a tone that was less question and more accusation.
"Outside in," I said, with full confidence.
"You don't know."
"I really don't."
She picked up the smallest fork and pointed it at me. "If you embarrass me in front of these cloth napkin people?—"
"Calvin, darlin', I'm a farrier from Larkspur, Montana, with horse shit on my boots seventy percent of the time. I already embarrassed both of us just by walkin' through the door."
She looked at my boots. Back up. "Fair point."
She ordered the scallops—somethin' she'd never had—without so much as a waver, with the kind of easy confidence that told me she'd spent a lifetime not lettin' on when somethin' was new to her. I ordered the ribeye and we talked, which was still somethin' that got me every time—how easy it was with her. No effort. No performance. Just Calvin with her chin in her hand and her eyes on mine and the occasional string of words that made me want to clear the table and sayfuck dinner.
She worked through her plate with focused appreciation, not takin' a single bite for granted. I watched her do it more than was strictly polite.
"How's the food?" I asked.
She considered. "Best thing I've ever put in my mouth." Her eyes cut to mine, deliberate as anythin'. "Present company included."
I set my fork down. "Check, please."
She cackled loud enough that the cloth napkin people at the next table looked over. I didn't care even a little bit.
We split a slice of cheesecake, and when the waiter set the bill in front of me—which I quickly picked up before my viper got any ideas—Calvin looked pained.
"What's wrong?" I asked, voice low.
"Was this a…date?"
"Sure as shit was. Just like Iamyour boyfriend."
Wildest fuckin' thing happened after that.
Calvin Jennings blushed, and fuck me if it wasn't the most satisfyin' thing I'd witnessed in all my thirty-five years.
So quiet I barely heard her, Calvin said, "I've never been on a date before."
That confession damn near broke my heart. Thirty-four years old and never been on a date.
"Well, I'm honored to be your first," I said, hopin' like hell I telegraphed the sincerity enough for it to really soak in.
Instead of gettin' all sentimental—which was sure as shit not a thing Calvin did—a shit-eating grin spread across her face.
