“I can’t even picture you in the city,” I say, staring at his profile.
He laughs. “I was a fish outta water, no doubt.”
“But you lived here before, right?” My voice fades out, the uncertainty over whether I should even bring up his past fueling a bout of instant regret. “Kate told me…” I give an apologetic shrug. “The other night when we were at her house.”
“Yeah,” he says, casting a brief glance my way. “After the accident, I went to live with my mom’s parents. There was no will or anything. They were just better suited financially to raise a kid.” He pauses briefly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “I owe them so much.”
His love for the people who raised him comes shining through his every word. “I’m glad you had them to help you to deal with that loss.” Why can’t I just shut up? I promised the man a date, not a session with a grief counselor.
“It’s fine,” he says, sensing my reluctance to continue. “It all happened so long ago.”
“I’m sorry. I just get chatty when I’m nervous.” Way to out yourself, idiot. “I mean, not that you make me nervous, or anything…” Hot lava bubbles in my tummy.
“Of course not.” He rolls his tongue over his lips, biting back a smile, and his grip tightens on the wheel, flexing and unflexing with manly pride. “How else are we gonna get to know one another?”
“Is that the goal here?” I ask, starting to backpedal. How could I allow myself to get sucked into his orbit so easily?
“Isn’t it?” He grants me another brief look before turning his attention back to the winding road.
“I’m just here to repay a debt.” I’m trying to keep it real, but one look at the disappointment on his face has me wishing I could take it back.
“Right,” he says, his jaw suddenly tense. He doesn’t say another word for the remainder of the short drive to Clotille’s Riverside Restaurant.
I’m stewing in a mixture of relief and regret, sure I’ve just ruined the entire night, when we pull into the gravel lot. But I shouldn’t be surprised to find that Wyatt is extremely forgiving—at least where jaded females such as myself are concerned.
“Get your fingers off that handle,” he orders when I reach to open my own door. “My Mimi didn’t raise no millennial.”
His comment has me choking on a laugh. “What, no Fortnite and Tinder for you?”
He scoffs. “One of the benefits of being raised by old people who didn’t know the first thing about interwebs and those playboxes.” The way he mimics their language with such fondness is priceless.
“You’ll be glad to know you’re dodging a bullet here,” I say, referring to myself.
“Why do you say that?” He takes my hand, helping me down from the cab.
Once standing, I rise up to my toes and lean in close, pressing my lips against his ear. “I might have had a YouTube channel in high school.”
He gasps. “Say it ain’t so.”
“I’m not proud of it…it was a dark time in my life.”
“You go through a goth phase or something?” He laces his fingers with mine, leading me up the wraparound porch of the quaint eatery.
“Quite the opposite.” I chew the inside of my cheeks, hesitant to expose myself. “A cheerleader.”
“Table for two under Wyatt Landry,” he says to the hostess, who grabs two menus and instructs us to follow.
“That actually doesn’t surprise me at all,” he says, guiding me along the uneven floors with his hand at the small of my back.
“Really?”
“You look the type.” He shrugs. “Gorgeous, leggy, blonde, with a bangin’ body.” He makes a show of looking me over head to foot. “I could see you on the arm of a quarterback, easily.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll never make that mistake again.”
The hostess seats us at a table in the courtyard, leaving us with menus and a promise that our server will be with us shortly. It’s a beautiful evening, nice clear skies granting us the perfect view of the stars that are just peeking out to make their nightly appearance. The temperature is perfect, too—cool enough that we aren’t being eaten alive by mosquitos but not so cold we have to bundle up.
I stupidly think I won’t have to elaborate on my earlier comment, but Wyatt doesn’t skip a beat, picking up right where we left off.
“Bad experience?”
I groan, hoping to convey just how much I’m not wanting to have this particular conversation. “Prissy’s father was the