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He waited for a moment, but while he could tell she had seen it, she didn’t respond.
No matter—she wanted to have dinner. That was a good sign. It meant she was willing to talk. Willing to spend time with him away from the usual places.
He panicked for an instant when he realized that he had no idea where to take her. His only options here were Ralphie’s and MJ’s, both of which were closed on Sundays.
He would figure it out. He’d ask Brand or Spencer when he saw them later. They were both in relationships; they would know of good places to take a woman for dinner.
“What is this place?” Libby asked in horror the following evening. She’d known they would have to head to a neighboring town for dinner and had been expecting Knysna. But he’d driven through the center of Knysna toward the long road that cut through the tidal estuary. And then toward the island at the other end of that road.
He had parked outside a cozy-looking lodge situated right beside the lagoon.
“Spencer Carlisle told me about this restaurant. He says the food’s great and it’s quiet enough for us to talk.”
This was definitely not what Libby had had in mind for their discussion. It looked too intimate and too romantic. An opinion reinforced by the table the young waiter led them to. It was situated in a quiet corner, overlooking the dark lagoon.
Maybe he hadn’t known how romantic this place would be. Maybe Spencer Carlisle had assumed Greyson wanted to bring her someplace like this. A natural assumption for the man to make. After all, Greyson was a married man asking another married man for his opinion on dinner venues.
But Greyson didn’t look at all uncomfortable with his venue choice. Instead he looked a little too pleased with himself.
“According to the online reviews, the food here is terrific,” he said, unfolding his napkin and draping it over his lap.
Libby didn’t respond to that, reaching for her own napkin. The awkward small talk on the thirty-minute drive here had been uncomfortable enough.
“I’m sure it is,” she murmured, reaching for the menu for lack of anything better to do.
“Not as good as your food, I’m sure,” he said with a smile, and she returned the smile with a troubled one of her own.
What did he think this dinner was about? After their argument on Friday, surely he had put two and two together? But this was . . . it felt wrong.
The waiter returned for their drink order, and when Greyson asked for the best cabernet sauvignon on the menu, Libby cringed a little inside. He seemed to be pulling out all the stops, and she wasn’t sure what to say.
“We were hammered by the younger team last night,” he said, referring to the football match Daff’s husband had arranged for his at-risk teens. The kids had played against the adult team. MJ’s had catered the event. Another of the brilliant new marketing strategies Tina and Daffodil Carlisle had dreamed up to bolster business. They would be providing refreshments and meals for a few key local events.
“Oh?” she prompted him, wanting to keep him talking while she tried to figure out what the hell was going on here.
“Yes. Six goals to our three. I scored two of those goals, by the way.”
Was that a boast? Was he trying to impress her? “That’s great.”
The waiter brought their wine and asked if they were ready to order an appetizer. Libby picked something at random; her mind was racing, and she wasn’t really concentrating on the menu. She mumbled her way through most of the conversation, while he enthused about the restaurant, praised the food, and kept complimenting her on arbitrary things. Her hair, her clothes, her fricking meal choices.
She attempted to bolster her courage with the wine, absently noticing that Greyson didn’t touch his wine at all, sipping from his water instead. They were halfway through their main course when he reached for her hand.
She snatched it out of his grasp and hid it beneath the table. Her entire body was trembling in shock and horror.
Damn it.
“Greyson . . . you seem to have the wrong idea about tonight.”
Chapter Thirteen
Greyson had already figured out that he’d made a few inaccurate assumptions about tonight. However he had held out some hope that perhaps he could salvage the evening. But Olivia had been uncomfortable and on edge since they’d set foot in the restaurant, and nothing he had said or done had changed that. It was becoming increasingly evident that Olivia was not here to mend fences and start anew.
She reached for her purse, a large “mum” bag. The type that could stash just about anything. He eyed it with trepidation, not sure he wanted to see what she had in there.
She withdrew a folded white A4 envelope and put it on the table between them. Greyson glared at it like it was a coiled snake, and she pushed it toward him. He moved his hands to the edge of the table, not wanting to touch the thing. Not wanting to know what was in it.
