Evie points at her. “Liar.”
“Fine. Yes. But only because you were both speaking words in my bakery, where I keep my ears.”
“This is private.”
“Sweetheart, if you wanted private, you shouldn’t have fallen for a man whose idea of asking you out includes exit routes.”
I stiffen.
Evie’s hand stays in mine.
Darlene sees that and softens by almost nothing. “Saturday, huh?”
Evie lifts her chin. “Saturday.”
“Good. I’ll close.”
“You will?”
“Yes. I’m old, not evil.” She looks at me. “You bring her home safe.”
“I will.”
“Don’t say it like a vow unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
The room quiets.
Darlene nods once. “Then fine. Now somebody clean the mixer bowl before tomorrow’s dough tastes like feelings.”
She disappears back upstairs.
Evie starts laughing again, helpless and bright, and I find myself smiling. Not almost. Not hidden. A real smile, small but present.
Her laughter fades when she sees it.
“Oh,” she says softly.
The smile becomes difficult to maintain under the weight of her attention. “What?”
“You really do have a nice smile.”
Heat moves along my neck. “You have said that.”
“I stand by it.”
I should release her hand. I do not.
The date is arranged. Saturday. Seven. Sports bar. Three exits, perhaps four. Food. Drinks. Grav-ball machines. Conversation. Evie beside me not as employer, not as protected civilian, not as debt-holder, but as a woman who said yes.
It should please me.
It does.
It also terrifies me so deeply that when I leave later through the rear door, I stand in the alley for a full minute under the cold rain, gripping the edge of the doorframe after it closes behind me.
This is real now.
