Page 26 of Emil

“But I’m not done with the spreadsheet,” he protested.

I reached over, made sure the document was saved, and then shut his laptop. “At least for tonight you are.”

Rather than argue, Anders nodded and leaned back in his chair. Some of the tension he’d arrived with had eased, but I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking it was gone. John’s accusation still hung in the air while the audit ground on.

“The last couple of weeks have been such a grind. I think dinner out is called for.” I started packing up my stuff so I could head back to the house before getting ready to leave, but Anders’s face, which had been open a moment ago, closed off completely. “I’ve been wanting to go over to Wild Fern. My friend and his boyfriend swear by it. If I’m lucky, I’ll have some good company while I eat.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a nice time.” Anders’s voice sounded scratchy, and I hoped he wasn’t coming down with something.

“I hope we’ll have a good time,” I clarified.

“We?”

Anders’s face was a vault. I’d never seen him so expressionless, but his eyes couldn’t hide the worry behind them. I didn’t understand what was going on, but I knew to my bones that Anders needed me tonight.

“Yes, we. Assuming you want to eat dinner with me. I shouldn’t have presumed so much.”

“You don’t have to invite me out to dinner just because you don’t want to leave me at home.”

Happiness bloomed in my chest when Anders described this place as home. I was glad. Well, glad wasn’t quite the right word, but it would have to do for now. I was grateful I could give him some refuge because fuck knew he needed it after the pressure he’d been living under.

“I want you there.” I hoped he heard the sincerity in my voice because it was absolutely true. I liked who I was around Anders, and how I felt when he was there. The more of that I could get, the better.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

“Table by the window, all right for you?” the server asked as we walked up to the host stand. I glanced at Anders, who nodded toward the window, so I turned back to the server and agreed.

The Pacific Northwest vibes of the place were unmistakable, but it was early enough on a weekday that it wasn’t too crowded or loud. I couldn’t help but notice how close Anders stood next to me, and although he was broader and an inch or two taller, I still felt a tug of protectiveness toward him.

We wound our way through the tables, weaving through the tight space. At one point, we had to squeeze past a pulled-out chair, and on instinct, I placed my hand on the small of his back. A spark of awareness shot through me.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Very often, Anders was the first thing I thought about in the morning. What was he doing? Was he already at work? I knew the answer to both.

He’d be prepping for the day. Making sure nothing was out of place in the main areas of the cottage. Making sure a fresh pot of coffee was brewing and ready at seven when I walked through the door. He’d gotten into the habit of bringing it to my desk and refilling it throughout the morning. At lunchtime, he set the table. We usually shared meals, and those moments had very quickly become the best parts of my day.

Anders’s genuineness and kindness seeped into every part of his life. It showed in how he spoke to the delivery guy, or when he talked to Rory, his best friend, who was also, apparently, a writer forever fighting characters who refused to cooperate.

“Hey, guys, what can I get you to drink?” the server asked.

“Do you have lemonade?” I asked.

“We do.”

“Perfect. He’ll have a lemonade, light ice, please, and I’ll take whatever you have on tap that’s local,” I answered.

Anders nodded softly, a small smile pulling at his mouth. I’d eaten with him enough times to know he preferred lemonade. I thought it was too sweet. The first few times he’d apologized for his kid-like preferences, I shut it down immediately.

Anders opened and closed his mouth a few times while we waited for our drinks to arrive. It was obvious he wanted to say something, but I didn’t push. Whatever it was, he’d get there in his own time.

I slid the menu back toward him so he had something to focus on. “What do you think looks good?”

He scanned the page, brow furrowing just a little. “I can’t decide between the clam chowder and the mushroom risotto.”

“Then don’t,” I said absently, already half a thought ahead.

The server chose that moment to reappear, notepad in hand. “What can I get you two to eat?”

I handed the menu back without looking at it. “Mushroom risotto for him. Steak frites, medium rare, for me. We’ll share a bowl of chowder as our appetizer.”