Page 21 of Love Felt Like This

“You’re going to that dinner with Griffin Harvey.”

My phone buzzed again, but this time it didn’t stop. It wasn’t a text but a phone call. We sat there in silence as it continued to vibrate on the sticky table next to our empty packets of soy sauce. Before I could send it to voicemail, Finch snatched the phone, answered it, then slapped it back into my palm. It was a call from that same number, and that conversation with Jimmy Verso landed me here.

Now, twenty-four hours later, I squint into the dimly lit lobby—a far cry from the bright lights of last night’s restaurant. Wall sconces illuminate black tile floors, velvet chairs, and deep maroon walls. A curtain conceals the short hall from the main seating area, like even being past the front doors doesn’t guarantee viewing the goods.

Thankfully, I have a reservation under “Jimmy,” so the waitress leads me past the hostess stand without assessing me too much, or maybe it’s just too dark in here. Honestly, how is she navigating without a flashlight?

I don’t belong in a place like this. I’m wearing the nicest dress I own: a yellow linen knee-length I thrifted that’s hanging together through many patchworked sewing jobs. It’s pretty—a little too boob-y for me—but not ritzy, and I’m still 90 percent limbs and pale skin.

I should have taken that flight home. I would be in Elk Grove right now, watching some reality show with Momma, hearing Uncle Greg’s rants about the wandering goats at Daisy’s house, and huddling under a quilt in front of a crackling fireplace.

My hands grip the strap of my purse as I navigate around a corner to the back of the restaurant. My family won’t believe I’m here. Rob would have an aneurism if he knew I was meeting with Griffin Harvey. My brother idolizes him, but I barely know who the guy is or what he wants from me.

“Just be yourself,” Finch said.

“I’m gonna use my Bernie voice,” I responded. “Maybe it’ll break the ice a little.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“You can’t stop me.”

Circular inlets house velvet booths. Braided tassels fall from drawn-back curtains, exposing polished mahogany tables. Somewhere between my focusing on walking in heels, trying to make out muffled murmurs behind curtains, and mentally threatening my own breasts to stay inside the dress, we halt in front of a table.

Sitting in the booth, fiddling with a small glass of bourbon, is Griffin Harvey.

My heart leaps into my throat, and oh no, oh no, oh no, I’ve made a huge mistake.

Griffin is in a black Henley with rolled-up cuffs, displaying his sleeves of foliage and bird tattoos. His analog watch face is black, and the strap is a thick leather that probably smells just as good as his boots did the other night. His wild brown hair hangs heavy on his shoulders, partially tied back. He’s dressed like a real hot person comfortable with his surroundings, and I’m standing here like a pretend hot person in wobbly heels.

“Beverly, right?” he asks. The sound of my name on his lips feels too gruff.

“Yes, hi. Right. I’m Beverly. You’re Griffin,” I stumble out, but it accidentally comes across like I’m mocking him. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

Griffin stands, towering over me with broad shoulders and thick arms that could crush me if we hugged. Not that we ever would. A little line appears between his eyebrows, as if he could read my mind and he’s confused by it.

He holds out his palm, and I slip mine inside for a quick shake. His hand is large and warm. A little clammy, too, but oh wait, no, that’s just mine. We linger for half a second—enough for me to question why we’re still doing it—before I slip my hand out of his and lower it back down to my side.

The server leaves us. I almost want to call her back to be our third wheel in this pseudomeeting thing. Some man in the booth across from ours eats alone. Maybe I’ll invite him instead.

“Take a seat,” Griffin instructs. “Please.”

“Sure thing” is what I answer because that’s casual, right?

“How are you?”

“Good, good.” I smile as he sits. He doesn’t smile back, instead bringing his drink to his lips.

It’s awkward. Horrifically awkward.

Be yourself.

I clear my throat. “Nice to be away from your crotch this time.”

Griffin chokes mid-sip. I smile. He gives a twitching thing back. Might be a smile under that thick beard. Could be irritation.

He sets his drink on the napkin and smooths it back with his thumb.

“So, you’re reviving Birds on the Block,” he says. All right, apparently Mr. Harvey prefers to just skip all the conversational foreplay.