Page 4 of Inked Heart
Instead, I’m sitting in a restaurant that smells like garlic butter and fried shrimp while my boyfriend stares at his phone like I’m the least interesting thing at the table.
Romance really is dead.
I swirl the straw in my iced tea and glance around the room for the hundredth time.The place is busy tonight.The low murmur of conversation blends with country music playing softly from the speakers overhead.Plates clatter in the kitchen, waitresses weave between tables, and somewhere near the back someone laughs loud enough to turn heads.
Normally I like this place.
The Magnolia Room is one of the nicer restaurants in Franklinton.White tablecloths, warm lighting, and a menu that tries very hard to feel upscale for a town that barely has five thousand people.
Tonight, though?Tonight it feels like a stage and I’m stuck performing the role ofperfect girlfriend.
Across the table, Emette finally looks up from his phone.“You’re quiet tonight,” he says.
I blink at him.“I’ve been talking.”
His brows pull together slightly like that answer annoys him.“Yeah, but you’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“You know.”He waves his hand vaguely.“The distracted thing.”
I stare at him.I want to point out the irony of him accusingmeof being distracted when he’s spent most of dinner texting someone.But experience has taught me that calling Emette out rarely ends well.
So instead I smile.Because that’s easier.
“Just a long day,” I say lightly.
It’s not even a lie.Between work, errands, and baking cupcakes for the House of Ink guys earlier, I’ve been on my feet most of the day.And yes ...maybe my brain keeps drifting back to the shop.To laughter.To cupcakes disappearing faster than I expected.To Damien standing quietly near the counter with his glasses on, looking like some kind of ridiculously attractive math professor.
I shove that thought aside immediately.That’s dangerous territory.
“So,” I say, trying to redirect the conversation, “I stopped by House of Ink today.”
Emette’s mouth tightens slightly.Of course it does.He’s never liked that I go there.
“Again?”he says.
“It’s just cupcakes,” I reply.
“You’re spending a lot of time over there.”
The way he says it makes my stomach twist.Like I’m doing something wrong.
“They’re my friends, Emette.”
“They’re tattoo guys,” he counters.
“And?”
He leans back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest.“And people talk.”
I stare at him, confused.“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he says slowly, like he’s explaining something to a child, “that hanging around a tattoo shop all the time doesn’t exactly scream class.”
Oh...Well.Shit.
That stings more than I expected.
