Page 108 of Blades Out
"Yeah." His grin widened. "Don't tell her I told you, though. She'd probably deny it just to keep you on your toes."
I laughed—soft, surprised by how natural it felt. "That sounds like her."
We slowed at a red light, and Ben used the pause to glance over fully, his expression open and easy. "You settling in okay otherwise? The city, the apartment, everything?"
"Getting there." The lie came smoothly, practiced. "It's an adjustment."
"Where'd you move from?"
My stomach tightened. "A few hours north. Small town. Nothing special."
He nodded like that made perfect sense, not pressing for details I couldn't give. The light turned green, and we eased forward again, streetlights washing over the windshield in rhythmic intervals.
"Well, if you ever want company checking out the city, I know some good spots. Low-key places mostly, but—" He shrugged, almost shy. "I don't know. Could be fun."
"Yeah. Maybe."
The word came out softer than I meant it to, caught somewhere between gratitude and guilt I couldn't quite swallow down.
Because sitting here felt safe. And safe should have been exactly what I wanted.
The restaurant was tucked between a bookstore and a dry cleaner, easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. Warm light spilled through the front windows, golden and inviting against the darkening street. A hand-painted sign hung above the door—Bella Notte in flowing script.
Ben held the door open, and I stepped into heat and the smell of garlic, tomatoes, fresh bread. Small tables crowded the space, mismatched chairs and checkered tablecloths that should have clashed but somehow worked. Soft Italian music drifted from speakers I couldn't see, barely audible beneath the quiet hum of conversation.
"This okay?" Ben appeared at my elbow, close enough I felt the brush of his jacket against my arm. "I wanted something nice. For a first date."
The knot in my stomach pulled tighter.
"It's perfect," I managed, meaning it and hating myself for the hollow feeling underneath.
The hostess—a woman in her sixties with silver hair and a warm smile—led us to a corner table near the back. Ben pulled out my chair before I could reach for it, that same careful thoughtfulness from the car door.
I sat, murmuring thanks I barely heard myself say.
He settled across from me, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the chair back. "Their pasta's incredible. Homemade. The kind that ruins you for the boxed stuff forever."
"Sounds dangerous."
He grinned. "The best things usually are."
I reached for the menu, fingers closing around the worn laminated edge, and my gaze snagged on the entrance. Empty doorway. Just the hostess station and the street beyond. No one coming in. No broad shoulders in a dark hoodie. No unreadable dark eyes scanning the room until they found me.
I forced my attention back to the menu, jaw tight, furious with myself.
Stop it.
Ben was talking about the wine list, something about a recommendation from a friend, but the words blurred together. My eyes drifted toward the door again before I could stop them. Still empty. Still just warm light and strangers and the faint clink of silverware against plates.
I pressed my thumb against the edge of the menu hard enough it hurt.
Rhys wasn't coming. Rhys didn't even know I was here. And if he did, he wouldn't care.
Ben talked with his hands when he got excited—gestures that punctuated stories about his photography professor who hated digital cameras, about the time Jenna caught him giving free pastries to a kid who looked hungry, about how he'd almost dropped out of school twice before figuring out what he actually wanted to do.
He was sweet. Earnest in a way that should have been endearing.
Was endearing.
