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“To your dad,” he agreed, taking his own big bite.
She held her fork up, and he held up his and tapped it to hers, as if they were doing cheers with cake.
She laughed, then took a bite.
“Wonderful,” she said.
“So how was that?” he asked.
She blinked. How was that? Oh. Of course. Because they were doing this thing to evaluate his spousal readiness, they weren’t just having a meal. That conversation had been a rehearsal for him, not a real conversation. And of course, she knew that he really did mean the tribute to her dad; it was just... It was still part of this. And for a second she had forgotten.
“Very successful,” she said. “I think that you’ve been very successful.”
“Great. Glad that by your estimation I did a pretty good job, Doc.”
“I guess when you get married your life will be like this. An evening in instead of one at the bar, and restaurants instead of the tavern.”
“I could marry Fia Sullivan, then it probably would be the tavern.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s fine. If that’s what you want.”
It felt weird, thinking about Lachlan going and doing this very thing with somebody else. Trying to insert another person into this position.
And she should be happy to think of it. Happy for him. But it just felt like this person—this exceptionally important person—was slipping further and further away from her.
He paid the bill—even though she protested—and they stepped outside.
She shivered. “It’s freezing,” she said.
He grinned, lopsided beneath the string lights above. Then he took his jacket that he had draped over his arm and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Should’ve brought your coat.”
It was more of the chivalry. More of the chivalry that he was going to extend to whatever woman he ended up dating.
But his coat smelled like him, and it was very warm. And she found herself gripping the edges of it and wrapping it even more tightly around herself.
“Thanks.”
They walked down the sidewalk together, the only sound their shoes on the cement.
The sky was clear and cold, the stars above twinkling, diamond white tonight instead of yellow.
His jacket was warm. So was his presence beside her.
He rounded to the passenger side of the truck and started to open the door for her. And just then, a shooting star went across her vision. “Oh,” she said.
“What?” He looked up, his gaze following hers.
“Shooting star. It’s already gone.”
They both looked down at the same time, at each other. The only light was a streetlight down the sidewalk a ways, and it was impossible to see his face in any great detail.
“Did you make a wish?” he asked.
Right then everything seemed to get slow. And there was something about the light that made her look at the features of his face a little bit differently. The way that it emphasized the sharp cut of his nose, the groove at the center of his top lip, the strength of his jawline. She hadn’t made a wish. Because she had no idea what she would even wish for. It had never even occurred to her to wish for anything. Not once in her life.
“I don’t wish,” she said.
“You don’t wish?”
