Page 84 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
And right on cue, I hear his voice from behind us.
“Know something about what?” Grant asks, stepping into view with his wine glass and that maddening calm of his.
“Oh, nothing,” Marlow says too quickly, her voice a little too bright.
“We were just talking about adapting to things we didn’t think we could handle,” I say smoothly, keeping my eyes on Grant like it’s a game of chicken I’ve already decided to lose.
He picks up the wine bottle, and as he pours, his gaze doesn’t waver. Not once. It's dark and unreadable, but I feel every unspoken word behind it like heat licking up my spine.
Damn you, Holly. She was right.
“I see,” he says.
My stomach tightens. I should feel called out. Exposed. Maybe even embarrassed. But all I feel is the unbearable tension strung between us, pulled taut and humming.
Marlow keeps stirring her sauce, blissfully unaware she’s playing third wheel in a scene that’s about three seconds from combusting.
“Thanks for agreeing to dinner tonight,” Grant says finally, setting the bottle down. “It’s been a long time since Marlow’s let someone invade our time.”
That lands heavier than I expect. It nudges something inside me—soft and a little raw.
“Guess that makes me a friend of the family,” I reply, hoping my voice doesn’t give anything away.
His jaw ticks. His blue eyes go a shade darker.
“Friends, huh?”
The word sounds like a threat on his tongue.
I lift my glass and meet his stare. “To becoming friends when we didn’t think it was possible.”
Marlow turns just in time, grabbing her glass with a flourish. “I always knew it was possible for us to be friends, Eslin. Apparently all it took was a damn good plate of oxtails!”
We clink glasses, the sound light and casual—completely at odds with the tension wrapped around my chest.
“Don’t forget to make eye contact,” Marlow says with a grin.
“Not to worry,” Grant murmurs, his eyes finally leaving mine just long enough to clink glasses with her.
But not before he burns me alive with one last look.
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here to mourn my panties.
They have drowned.
***
Dinner is awkward, but the conversation flows well enough. Like we all agreed—silently and without eye contact—to just act normal. Grant asks me the kind of questions you’d expect on a first date. Hobbies. Favorite books. What kind of music I like.As if he didn’t already hear the answers when we walked all night under the Vegas lights.
I pretend it’s the first time I’m saying them. Smile just right. Keep my tone breezy. Like none of it means anything.
“Dinner is spectacular, Marlow. I’ve never had eggplant parmesan before,” I say, setting down my fork.
“Thanks so much! It’s one of my favorite dishes to make,” she beams.
I shake my head. “She’s a boss and she cooks. Who raised you, woman?”
