Page 63 of The Story Between Us

This awareness was new. Or maybe not new. Maybe it had been building all along, buried under grief and guilt and the numbness he’d wrapped around himself like armor. But something had cracked open this morning when he’d finished that chapter. Something had thawed. And now he was sitting across from her, feeling like a live wire, every nerve ending awake at once, his whole body tuned to her frequency.

“What’s good here?” she asked, looking up.

Her eyes met his—hazel, warm, flecked with gold in the candlelight—and his stupid heart thundered against his ribs.

“I have no idea.” He picked up his own menu, grateful for somewhere to put his attention that wasn’t the hollow of her throat, the curve of her ear, the way she kept tucking her hair back and exposing the line of her neck. “I’ve never actually eaten inside. Always just did takeout.”

“Then why did you—” She stopped. Smiled—that smile, the one that crinkled the corners of her eyes and made her whole face light up, the one that made him want to lean across the table and taste it. “Never mind. We’ll figure it out together.”

Together. Right. That was the problem.

The server had seated them by the window, overlooking the lake. The water had gone dark now, reflecting the lights from the restaurant and the first stars emerging overhead. The fireplace crackled and popped, sending shadows dancing across the walls.

“The flatbread looks good,” she said. “Want to split one?”

“Sure.”

“And maybe the butternut squash soup? It’s seasonal.”

“Sounds great.”

“Nate.” She put down her menu. “Are you okay?”

No. He was very much not okay. He was sitting across from a woman who was making him feel things he’d thought were dead, and he had no idea what to do with any of it. He wanted to touch her. Wanted to reach across the table and take her hand and not let go.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just…haven’t done this in a while.”

“Done what?”

Let his mind drift back to the past, tug on it, and let the longings free.

“Eaten somewhere with tablecloths,” he said instead.

She laughed, and of course it transformed her face, her eyes crinkling at the corners, her whole body lighting up from within.

“The tablecloths are pretty fancy,” she said. “Very sophisticated. Very un-hermit-like.”

“I’m trying something new. Rejoining society. One tablecloth at a time.”

“I’m honored to witness your reintegration.”

He smiled. This was easier when she was teasing him. Easier to stop drowning in the awareness of her—the way she smelled, the warmth radiating from her across the small table, the way her knee was almost touching his beneath the tablecloth.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Nate Rivers!”

He turned. Tom Lindgren—sixties, kind eyes, owned the hardware store—was standing beside their table, grinning like he’d discovered buried treasure.

“Haven’t seen you in ages,” Tom said. “How’s the book coming?”

“It’s…coming. Making progress.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Tom’s eyes flicked to Livvie, then back to Nate, his grin widening in a way that suggested the whole town would know about this by morning. “And who’s this?”

“Olivia Fox.” She extended her hand. “I’m working with Nate on the manuscript.”

“Working with him.” Tom shook her hand, his expression saying he wasn’t buying the professional angle for a second. “Well, that’s wonderful. The whole town’s been hoping he’d get back to writing. You tell him to take care of himself, you hear? He forgets to eat when he’s working.”