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“How many times? You never need to apologize to me.”
“Never?”
“N-E-V-E-R.”
“So, if I ran outside, keyed your car, and smashed the windows, we’re all good?”
He chuckles. “That would be a cruel way to treat your uncle.”
“At least we’ve got the perfect alibi. We’re not on a date. You’re taking pity on your lonely niece and taking her to try a new restaurant.”
“Exactly. This is work research.”
I almost laugh, but then that familiar sensation tightens in my chest, the tight hand of guilt closing.
“We shouldn’t joke about this.”
“You’re right, but it’s better than driving ourselves insane with everything that could go wrong.”
We eat without talking for a minute or two. My mind returns to the car, to the conversation about family, then the obsessed way he stared at me when we talked about my virginity. Several times, he cut off what he was about to say as though he would go further, share more, and then stop himself. Maybe he thinks I wouldn’t feel the same. What am I thinking? Thesame? I don’t even know how he feels.
“This place is really nice,” I say, mainly so we’re not sitting here without talking.
“You look so beautiful in the firelight. The way it bounces off your cheeks makes them look even more flushed.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“You look young, almost naïve, but fiery and sassy at the same time. Fertile.”
He bites down on the last word. My belly sizzles.
“Did you just say fertile?”
He laughs, leaning back, eyes suddenly flitting here and there as though he doesn’t want to look at me.
“Yeah. No idea where that came from. Not the sort of thing you’re supposed to tell your niece, is it?”
“I didn’t even know a person couldlookfertile,” I murmur, my heart pounding so freaking hard, sending hot shivers of longing through me.
“They can becauseyoudo,” he says. “Flushed youthful cheeks, wide hips, big, beautiful…” He nods at my chest, and I grin. “Perfect for feeding your children. If fertility were a woman, she’d be you.”
I’m beaming, but I attempt to push some of it down. Just because he’s saying all this doesn’t mean he’s talking specifically about us. Then why say it at all?
Maybe it’s time to stop doubting. This is another reason to take pride in my body. It has a purpose for us and the future.
“Why do I feel you’re hinting at something?”
This is the hardest thing I’ve ever said. It’s even more difficult to look him in the eye as I ask, stare at him as bravely as possible, and not let my anxiety surface.
“Care to get specific?” he says.
It sounds like you want us to have children together, I almost say, but then a voice rises behind me.
“Is that Lilly? Little Lilly Hill?”
I turn to find two men standing a few feet from our table. I don’t recognize either of them. One is tall and has cutting features, a sharp jawline, and a jutting chin. He has a dark brown mop of hair and is wearing a leather jacket. The other is shorter and wider, wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up and showing his colorful tattoos.
They exchange a glance and walk over. The closer they get, the more certain I become they’re drunk. They’re notcrazydrunk, but they’re weaving on the spot.
