Page 202 of End Game

“Is Friday a problem?”

“No.”

“Seven?”

“No. Seven's good.”

“Good.”

Then he got yogurt out of the refrigerator and walked away.

I stood there holding an empty coffee mug like an idiot.

A week ago, Ronan kissed me at midnight and nearly short-circuited every useful system in my body.

Three days ago, he kissed me in the hallway before work because apparently that's something we do now.

Yesterday, he grazed across the back of my shoulders and neck while passing behind my chair and kept going like he hadn't just destroyed my ability to read an email.

Now we're going on a date.

An actual date.

I should probably be less affected by this than I am.

We've lived together for years.

I know how he takes—and makes—his coffee. I know which cabinet he keeps the migraine medication in. I've seen him sick, pissed off, half-asleep, in full Dungeon Master mode, and standing in the kitchen at two in the morning wearing the exasperated expression of someone discovering someone else left a dirty pan in the sink again.

None of that should make dinner terrifying.

Somehow, it does.

Apparently, Ronan taking me to dinner is a charisma check I did not prepare for.

Because this isn't Ronan existing beside me in a life we've already built.

This is Ronan choosing time that belongs specifically to us.

That's different.

And apparently, I care about the difference a lot.

He doesn't tell me where we're going.

I figure out the first stop when he parks downtown in front of a gallery I've walked past at least a dozen times and never gone into.

I look through the windshield at the sign. “Seriously?”

Ronan turns off the engine. “You've never been here.”

It isn't a question.

“How do you know that?”

“You've mentioned wanting to.”

“When?”