Page 152 of The Professor's Wife

Maybe my fear was rubbing off on him.

At the table beside us, a woman held a menu while the man across from her told the waitress what they would both have.

The woman tried to correct him.

“I thought I might get—”

“You won’t like that,” he cut in.

She stopped.

“I had it before,” she said quietly.

“You didn’t like it.”

Her eyes dropped to the menu.

The waitress glanced between them.

“The chicken sandwich for her,” the man said. “No mayonnaise. She complains when they put too much on.”

The woman gave the waitress a small smile.

Then she nodded.

That fucking nod.

My stomach tightened.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder before looking back at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’ve been staring at them since we sat down.”

I shook my head and picked up my glass of water, though I wasn’t thirsty.

At the other table, the man reached across and took the menu from the woman’s hands. She let him. She didn’t protest or roll her eyes. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.

Maybe that was how they were.

Maybe she genuinely didn’t care what she ate.

Maybe I was searching for Oliver in every man who lowered his voice.

“Daze.”

I met Tristan’s eyes.

“What?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Going somewhere.”