Page 90 of Unruly

I nod toward the blanket. “C’mon. Food’s probably getting cold.”

“Cash …”

“Sit down,” I say before she can get any further.

She hesitates, mouth still half-open like she’s not ready to let it go. But then her eyes drop to the blanket again.

“How did you—” She bends and picks up the wine bottle, turning it in her hands so she can read the label. “This is exactly the wine I buy.”

“I know.”

She looks up at me, eyebrows pulled together. “How do you know what wine I buy?”

I almost tell her that I went through her pantry while she was sleeping that first night I stayed over at her house. That I saw the four bottles lined up and made a mental note. It would be easy to say it the old way, cocky way, but I don’t.

“I noticed the empty bottles in your recycling the night I stayed over,” I say instead. It’s only half a lie. “Figured you had a type.”

Something flickers across her face. It’s quick, but I catch it. She pushes it down fast, though, and looks back at the blanket.

“The diner food too?” she asks, softer now.

“Lucky guess and a good memory. You order the same thing every time you’re there.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

She huffs out a breath, but she’s fighting a smile now. I watch it win as she finally lowers herself onto the blanket, tucking her legs under her.

I sit down across from her, close but not crowding. The tension from whatever she was about to say still lingers in the air between us, but for now, she lets it sit.

I’ll take the win.

We eat as the sky finishes its colors above us, the ranch going dark and gold below.

At some point, she goes still next to me, looking out at nothing in particular, and I know exactly where she’s gone even though she hasn’t said a word.

“Hey,” I say.

She blinks back into the present. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“I was just—” She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. We’re sitting here with wine and flowers and somewhere out there …” She doesn’t finish it.

“I know,” I say. I don’t pretend I don’t know what she means. “It happened, it’s real, and it’s handled. You don’t have to carry it tonight if you don’t want to. But I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen either.”

She looks at me for a long moment. “Okay,” she finally says.

“Okay,” I say back.

And then, because I need her to laugh again—because I need both of us to come back to the surface for a minute, I say, “Also, I should tell you something: I’m not good at dating. So Dawson told me what to do … I had to figure out the specifics, but he … uh … helped think of a … gesture?

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Is that what this is?”

“This is me trying to do something right for once. I don’t really know if I succeeded.”

“Cash. It’s—” Her voice softens before she can stop it. “It’s really thoughtful.”