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“We'll have two Caesars and two king-cut ribeyes, medium rare. Loaded baked potatoes. Broccoli and asparagus.” He pauses. “And sliced tomatoes.”

Of course.

The server scribbles everything down and leaves.

“Bossy.”

“Maybe.”

Damian leans back. His wings shift behind him.

“But admit it, Sweet. You wouldn't have ordered just a Caesar if you were alone.”

My spine stiffens.

“Maybe not. But so what?”

His expression changes. The teasing disappears.

“Exactly.”

I blink.

“What?”

“So what?”

He leans forward, forearms braced on the table.

“You wanted the steak. Order the damn steak.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know what I want?”

“Because you’ve been glancing at Earl’s plate in the booth behind me since before you sat down.”

“I have not.”

“You absolutely have.”

His mouth twitches, and damn him, there’s something ridiculously attractive about that almost-smile.

“Fine. Maybe I have.”

“Then why order the salad?”

I look down at the menu.

This is stupid.

I’m thirty-eight years old. I own a haunted bed-and-breakfast. I’m trying to start my entire life over in a town where ghosts drip slime from the ceiling and my neighbor has wings.

I should not be embarrassed about wanting a fucking steak.

Except old wounds don’t care how old you are.

“It’s just…” I shrug. “I know what I look like, okay?”

Damian goes completely still.