Tangle (Dogwood Lane 2)

“You tell that grapevine named Claire to mind her own business,” I joke. “But, yeah, I did take her to eat and moved some pictures around. She’s very grandmotherly.”

She grins. “That she is. Has she given you pie yet?”

“No, but I smelled something pretty amazing before I left the inn tonight. I have high hopes.”

“If you want another dinner with me, you’re going to have to bring me some of Lorene’s pie. And don’t try to get a counterfeit piece, because I’ll know.”

I laugh, watching her eyes dance. “I saw you with a doughnut. I can only imagine what you’d do over pie.”

God, no, don’t go there, Kelly. Watching her gorgeous lips surround the pie-filled fork would probably unman me. If she groaned one time . . .

“I’m not even going to pretend to be embarrassed by or dispute that,” she says with a hint of defiance.

I grab a menu, needing to change the subject quick. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes, actually. And I love it here. The food is super good and not overpriced.” She picks up her menu. “I can’t eat food that costs more than what I make in a day.”

I lower my menu. “So if I told you my favorite meal is a filet mignon with crab at Morris’s Steakhouse in Nashville, you’d be . . .”

She lowers her menu too. “How much is it?”

“Oh, like a hundred bucks or something. With sides,” I add in as her eyes go wide.

“That’s ridiculous, Trevor.”

“It’s really good.”

Her menu slowly rises until it covers her eyes.

“Are you judging me over there?” I ask. “I can feel your judginess through the menu, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“No. You waste your money however you feel necessary. No judgment here.”

“You’re a brat,” I say with a laugh. An adorable, beautiful brat. But still a brat.

Our attention is drawn to the side as a woman with a name tag reading DELIA approaches. “Welcome,” she says, pulling an order form out of her apron. “I’m Delia, as you can probably read. And pardon the ketchup I’m currently wearing. A three-year-old didn’t appreciate the macaroni and cheese and let me know that with gusto.”

Haley giggles. “No macaroni and cheese, then. Got it.”

“Sorry.” She blows her bangs out of her eyes. “So what can I start you off with tonight?”

I look across the table at the deep-brown eyes staring back at me. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a sweet tea. No lemon, please,” she says.

“I’ll have the same.” I look at Delia briefly but swing my attention back to Haley when there’s a little too much to read in Delia’s gaze. “Do you want an appetizer?”

Haley considers this. “I don’t think so. Not tonight. I’m still a little bothered by your filet-and-crab order.”

“You are not.”

“I am too,” she insists. “And on another note, surf and turf has never made sense to me.”

“You don’t even know what’s good.”

She grins. “You should watch your word choice. I’m at dinner with you.”

Delia, who I’ve forgotten is even standing there, laughs. “You two are adorable.”

I look over at Haley. Her face is covered by the menu, and I wonder if it’s to keep me from seeing her reaction to Delia’s assumption—that we’re a couple.

The word usually makes me want to vomit. It’s a sign things are crossing the line to commitment, to responsibility, and those are two words I don’t love. But thinking of it attached to Haley feels different. It’s like we are just together, two people having dinner and enjoying ourselves. It’s not as suffocating, and I might even like it if I thought about it long enough.

Which I won’t.

“Apparently no appetizer and no surf and turf,” I say. “My adorable dining partner is a little pickier than she let on.”

“Got it.” Delia stuffs her notepad in her apron. “I’ll be back momentarily with your drinks. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”

“I’ll try,” Haley says. “It’s hard.”

Yes, it is. I adjust in my seat as discreetly as I can, because it seems everything about this firecracker across from me turns me on. Shit.

Delia disappears into the dining area as I turn my attention back to the lady in front of me.

“Okay,” she says. “Being serious. You picked a nice place. Thank you. But you could’ve taken me to Mucker’s, and it would’ve been fine.”

“I’ll take that as a point in my favor.”

She narrows her eyes, her lashes dark and thick. “You don’t really mind dining alone, do you?”

“Actually, I do. For real,” I say when she narrows her eyes even more. “I’m fine to eat alone at home or in my office. But I hate going into public and having a meal by myself.”

“Why? Are you self-conscious?”

“Not really,” I say. “I just . . . Fine. Maybe I am.”

“You are not.”

“Yes, I am,” I insist. My foot taps against the floor as I decide whether to explain myself. I don’t have to. It won’t matter if I don’t. But for some reason, I want her to understand. Maybe because I think she might care. “I had this thing happen in elementary school where all the moms came for this Mother’s Day program. We made them hats with paper plates and buttons, and we had to memorize poems. They brought tea and cookies, and I was so excited to show off my hat and poem to my mom.”