Page 32 of Parentmoon

“Dinner, Mr. Dallas.”

“Thank you, Marietta.” Dallas stands with ease and grace while I struggle to rise from the chair. He extends his hand and gives me a tug, and I chuckle when I collide with him.

“Congratulations.” Miguel is young, almost pretty, and his warm smile fills his face. He points between Dallas and me. “Newlyweds, right?”

“Oh, we’re not the ones newly married,” I correct. I understand the confusion, though, as we stand with Dallas’s arm around my back to steady me and I leaned into his chest after he pulled me upright.

“Miguel.” Marietta breaks into Spanish that I don’t understand, but her verbal speed and harsh tone hints she’s reprimanding him.

After Marietta finishes, Miguel dips his head. “My apologies.”

“No worries, honey.” He didn’t know better. Perhaps he thought we were Michael and Keli. The people who should be newlyweds. The couple that should be reveling in the romantic location. The youthful love that should be celebrating the start of a life together.

I slip from Dallas’s hold and approach the table. “It smells wonderful.” I’m suddenly famished.

Dallas reaches around me and pulls out my chair. For some reason, the action startles me and I glance up at him. “Thank you.”

Dallas’s gentlemanly manners are impeccable, and it’s been a long time since someone has treated me this way. I’m old-fashioned enough to admit I want a man to pull out my chair, hold a door for me, and bring me flowers.

After I take my seat, Dallas takes his. Miguel pours us each more wine and Marietta removes the platter covers.

“Yes?” she directs to Dallas.

“Perfect.”

I smile up at her as well and inhale. “It smells amazing.”

Marietta and Miguel excuse themselves and disappear around the side of the house. Dallas lifts his glass. “To not being newlyweds.”

I raise mine and clink against his, ignoring a brief ache near my sternum. His comment could be insulting, offensive even.

“Marriage.” I mockingly laugh. “Yuck.”

Dallas snorts and takes a sip of his wine before saying, “No one is talking about marriage.”

“Still, it’s romantic here.” I look around us and lift my glass higher. “And, like I said, you’re good at this.” Delicious wine, patio dinner, and the ocean view. It’s almost too much.

“Perhaps I have wedding fever,” he teases.

“Ah, wedding fever, where foolish bridesmaids long for their own wedding and do something stupid like sleep with a groomsman.”

“Or the father of the bride sleeps with the mother of the groom.”

I pause at holding up my glass. “Are you saying this morning was a mistake?” The day is catching up to me. It was only this morning we were in bed together.

Dallas sets down his knife and fork which he picked up and reaches across the table for my hand. “Absolutely not.”

“Wedding fever but no to marriage. Got it.” Why would Dallas want to get married? He’s been a bachelor his entire life. He’s good at it.

Taking in the setting once more—ocean, sunset, sand—I glance back at Dallas, squeeze his fingers and pull my hand free, ignoring a momentary and ridiculous sting in my chest.

“Jo,” Dallas clears his throat. My name on his tongue feels like a premonition. “You wouldn’t want to marry me anyway. I’m not really the marriage type,” he states, hammering home my thoughts.

I nod, agreeing while disagreeing with him. He’s confirming I wasn’t wrong when I said he disliked commitment. He’s also proving that he can be romantic, which gives a false pretense that he could be marriage material.

“No one is thinking about marriage.” I defend. “A woman is entirely capable of having sex without clinging like a barnacle.” A woman, meaning me. I can do this. It’s only a vacation fling.

Seconds pass before Dallas clears his throat again and changes the subject. He asks me about hospital administration. This segue is my biggest pet peeve about dating. The small talk that fills the space with questions and answers no one cares about when there isn’t any other connection between people. Eventually, I pick at my food instead of eating it.