Page 80 of Terms and Traditions

This woman. Her advice was rock solid and grounded in truth. “I’m sorry I lied,” I said. “There’s a lot of things I could have handled better this week.”

“Oh, baby.” Nana’s bright red lips curved with understanding. “That’s part of living. Growing and failing and trusting in Jesus. Now”—she smirked at me—“tell me all about that gorgeous man and why I found flour spilled in the pantry.”

I groaned and buried my no doubt scarlet face in my hands as my grandmother cackled. But my heart was lighter with the truth out in the open and hope on the horizon. We would make this work. Together.

Chapter thirty-six

Stephanie

“How many strings did you have to pull for this reservation?” I whispered in awe as Nash led me through a pavilion garden lit with dazzling white Christmas lights to the elegant, sandblasted scenery etched into Italia’s front doors. The romantic atmosphere simply from the outside grounds had me swooning, even if it screamed luxury and exclusive, which made my skin prickle. I passed the Italian restaurant every day on my way to work, and my debit card had wept when I inquired about pricing last year.

Nash chuckled, his hand resting on my lower back as the warm air of the restaurant kissed away the harshness of the bitter wind. “The manager owed me a favour.”

“I’m a little hurt that I’m not the only one you’re making bargains with.” I twisted my mouth into a disappointed pout while trying to hold back a laugh.

Nash had no qualms about laughing, though. He helped me out of my coat and handed it to an attendant. “Your bargains are the only ones that matter, Steph.”

I could live with that. But also, an attendant took our coats? I may have technically been a billionaire’s daughter, but I’d had a solid middle-class upbringing with my grandparents. More backyard barbeque than fine dining. Maybe I’d embarrass myself and Nash while I was at it. What if—?

“Hey.” Nash’s low voice skittered down my neck as he bent to meet my gaze. “Where’d you go?”

I laughed nervously. “Oh, you know, just imagining being thrown out on my ear for using the wrong fork or the elite patrons in the corner skewering me with condescension the whole night when I spill my water.”

His lips twitched with a smile, begging to be let out. “We’ve got a private table. Don’t worry.”

Ha. That was easier said than done, my guy. But I did feel marginally better. If I messed up which fork to use, we could laugh about it alone.

“This way please, sir. Madam.” The stone-faced maître d', starched within an inch of his life in his white shirt and black coattails, ushered us towards the back.

Nash’s guiding hand on the small of my back was warm through the fabric of my dress as he steered me after the host. His instructions had been that he’d pick me up at seven and I had to wear something I loved. So I’d chosen my favourite teal wrap dress and paired it with some sparkly earrings. The appreciative gleam in his eyes when he picked me up was worth every minute. No doubt I had a similar look on my own face at the fine figure he cut in his navy suit.

I soaked in the rustic overhead beams, decorated with whimsical greenery and fairy lights. Festive yet classy. The whole room was dimly lit. Ironwork chandeliers dangled overhead. On the whitewashed exposed brick, wall sconces cast a soft light, and on every table sat a flickering candle. It exuded money. And romance. Definitely no complaints on the last part.

I adjusted my skirt before sliding into the chair Nash held out for me.

“Your server will be right with you, Mr. Prescott.” The maître d’ dipped his head and glided off across the room.

“You come here often enough to be known by name?” I whispered, even though we were alone.

Nash chuckled. “Not at all. Like I said, there was a favour called in. What would you like?” He opened the black leather-bound menu, flipping through the cream-coloured pages with interest.

Following his lead, I eyed the entrées listings, my mouth watering. The sheer amount of pasta listings ushered me into food heaven. Choices, choices, choices. Closing my menu, I crossed my hands over top.

Nash eyed me over his menu. “Decide already?”

“Nope.” I smiled sweetly at him. “You pick.”

His eyebrows flew northward. “You want me to pick dinner for you?”

I nodded. “Nothing on this menu sounds terrible, and frankly, too many options overwhelm me. I defer to your expertise.” This was a big act of trust for me, even if it was in a small way.

“All right,” Nash agreed with a slow nod. “And you don’t have any allergies?” Once I confirmed in the negative, he perused the menu with much more intensity, like choosing the wrong dish might be a deal-breaker.

I touched the top of the luxurious leather, tugging it down a little so he’d focus on me. “I trust you, okay? It’s not a big deal. Seriously, everything here sounds amazing.”

Nash nodded and continued his search. It thrilled me he was so invested in this, even if it made me smile. When it came to food, I was easy to please.

After we split two appetizer trays—fried mozzarella bits and calamari—Nash ordered our main courses. And you know, it shouldn’t have been so attractive to watch a man order for you. Especially with such ease. I hated ordering. Because despite always rehearsing my order beforehand, I still managed to stumble over my words—but only when it was a personal order. For work? No problem. Ugh. Alas, the world wasn’t fair.