His mouth curved. “You would defend him.”
“I would,” I said. “But I wouldn’t trust him.”
“Wise.”
Our eyes met for a second too long, sparking something in the space between us.
Then the radio crackled and the moment broke, leaving behind that warm, fizzing feeling like we’d just shared a secret.
Arthur took the next exit without warning. I blinked at the road signs slipping past and finally asked, “Um… where are we going?”
He gave me that warm, steady half-smile that always made my stomach behave in ways I did not consent to. “To feed you,” he said, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “You must be starving.”
I sputtered, because he wasn’t wrong, but still. “I thought you were in a hurry?”
He shook his head, eyes back on the road, tone calm but almost amused. “I am,” he said. “But I’m not going to neglect my lovely passenger.”
My heart tripped so hard it nearly threw itself out the window.
The café looked like it had been plucked straight out of a cozy mystery novel. Small bistro tables that would absolutely blow away in a slightly ambitious breeze were arranged on the sidewalk. Behind them, flower boxes lush with greenery stood under every window. It even had a chalkboard sign promising the soup of the day, and a white-and-blue striped awning over the door.
It was perfect.
Arthur parked the museum-piece Mercedes—carefully—then opened my door before I could even reach for the handle. He would, of course. Being chivalrous suited his personality.
“Thank you,” I murmured, trying to hide the fact that my knees had gone suspiciously warm at the gesture.
He gave a small nod, and for a moment we just… looked at each other. Then he cleared his throat, and I pretended the air between us didn’t thrum faintly.
Inside, the waitress greeted us with a tired smile that brightened instantly when Arthur returned it. His whole face softened and his eyes warmed. Seeing it, I felt myself melt like a chocolate bar left in a glove compartment.
Green flag. A whole forest of green flags.
“Table fortwo?” she asked.
“Please,” he said with that quiet politeness that made even the wordpleasefeel meaningful.
She seated us at a booth near the window. Arthur waited for me to sit first, then slid in across from me with smooth, old-world grace on a man who absolutely should not look that good in soft afternoon light.
“Would you like to see a menu?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, thank you.” He turned that gorgeous smile on me. “Should we share an appetizer?”
My traitorous stomach somersaulted again. “Uhm, sure.”
He looked genuinely pleased. “Excellent.”
He ordered the bruschetta with roasted tomatoes, then thanked the waitress with sincerity that almost made her blush.
I tried not to stare.
When the appetizer arrived, he waited until I took the first bite.
Whowasthis man?
The silence that followed was comfortable, but not empty. It was the kind that made room for things you hadn’t planned on saying. I swallowed, nerves prickling, then looked up at him.
“I’m… sorry about your father,” I said softly. “It sounded difficult for you when you mentioned him earlier.”
