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Swinging our joined hands like a child, Tristan led me out of the store.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Tristan pulled into a parking garage, cut the engine and got out. He came around and opened my door for me, holding it wide with one hand while offering his other to me with a posture so formal it belonged in a ballroom.

“Thank you, sir.” I took his hand as I stepped into the chilly air.

“My pleasure, miss.” Tristan tucked my hand into the crook of his arm and maneuvered his body between me and the lane of oncoming traffic while he scanned the area.

I leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “I don't think Fabian's here. If he is, I doubt he's going to shoot us like a sniper.”

Tristan’s lips twitched. “A gentleman walks between a lady and the gutter. Splashing mud from carriage wheels, now car wheels, is a concern. There are puddles.”

“So, you're not worried about Fabian or Osric?”

“You wanted an evening out. I'm just making sure we can enjoy it.” He glanced down at me, his eyes catching the golden glow of the streetlamps lining Rockville Town Square. “I am unpracticed at this century’s customs. The last time I formally took a woman to an evening meal, one required a calling card, a chaperone, and three weeks of advance correspondence with her father.”

Whoa, I hadn't realized he'd been without for so long. Unless he'd been paying for it. Nope, didn't want to know.

“Let me relieve you of the pressure: no calling cards, no chaperones, and if you want to hold my hand, you don't have to ask my father’s permission.”

He took my hand from his elbow and clasped it. “That is an improvement.”

“Along with all the sex toys.”

Tristan's eyes twinkled. “Yes, along with those and so much more.”

The square was alive with movement—families walking dogs, teenagers clustered around the ice rink, couples lingering outside shop windows. The air had the crisp, leaf smell of autumn, something distinct and difficult to describe. But it was the scent of sweater weather to me. It and the aroma of hot apple cider.

I guided Tristan toward a corner bistro in an exposed brick building with a handwritten chalkboard out front. The host greeted us with a cheerful nod and gestured toward a table in the center of the dining room. Tristan pulled the wooden chair out for me and waited until I settled into it before easing it forward.

When he sat across from me, he straightened his dark charcoal sweater, placed his napkin across his lap, and looked at me with such an earnest expression my chest tightened with affection. I thought about all the dates I'd been on and how thrilled I would have been to have been treated like this. And our date had barely begun. Tristan was from another era, and it showed. No matter how kinky he got in the bedroom, this was how he would be in public. It made me feel very lucky and chased away my anxiety.

“Is the temperature comfortable?” he asked. “The draft from the entrance might reach this corner.”

“I'm fine, Tristan.” I smiled, trying not to laugh.

“Good.” He looked down at the small square card glued to the table. “Where are the menus?”

“You scan the QR code with your phone.”

He stared at the black-and-white grid for a moment before looking at me with an endearing despair. “I have survived the fall of the Byzantine Empire, the Black Death, and the invention of the combustion engine. I refuse to surrender my dinner order to a pixelated square.”

I pulled out my phone, pulled up the menu, and turned the screen toward him. “Crisis averted.”

We ordered small plates to share: blistered shishito peppers, crispy duck confit crostini, and wild mushroom risotto. After fifteen minutes, he stopped scanning for threats, and the tension left his body. The server delivered the dishes, and Tristan inspected them before scooping the first portion of risotto onto my plate.

Watching him navigate the meal was a study in old-world grace meeting modern informality. He took his time with every bite, savoring the richness of the mushrooms and the sharp bite of the peppers while remaining vigilant to keep my plate full.

“No stirrings?” I asked.

He poured more wine into my glass. “None. Everyone here is content.”

I looked around the restaurant. “Looks like mostly couples on dates. I'm surprised you don't feel anything from Cupid.”

“Cupid?” He rested his forearms on the dark wood of the table, leaning closer. The ambient amber light carved shadows beneath his cheekbones. “You want to name Heartbreak after the God of Love?”

“Cupid used love as a weapon. Remember he had gold arrows of love and lead arrows of aversion.”