Page 85 of Ridin’ Dirty

I jolted at his declaration, my hand tightening around his reflexively as I looked up at him.

Reservations?

Having felt my squeeze, he glanced over at me, caught my eye, and winked.

Holy hell.

It was stupid—so totally stupid—but that one little word made me trip and fall a little harder for the man. He gave me his last name, but a reservation felt like so much more.

He wasn’t just taking me to dinner.

He was taking me to dinner.

And now I really wanted to know where we were going.

I shifted my gaze across the table, silently praying Nighthawk wouldn’t deny him. Us.

“You know we’re not gonna let you shoulder this burden like that. No one’s pointin’ fingers. Except for me.” He pointed toward the door as he continued, “Go on, get out of here. Touch base tomorrow.”

The next thing I knew, I was being tugged toward the exit.

I took one last look at Nighthawk, hoping to express my silent gratitude.

My eyes caught his and he dipped his chin.

With a smile and a wave, I hurried after my husband.

The Keep was a fine dining restaurant built like a mansion. It was situated by a golf course, and it had the most beautiful view of the mountains. We got a table next to a window, and when the hostess sat a menu in front of me, I felt as confused as I was giddy.

This was not the kind of place someone like me would frequent on a regular basis. An establishment where the table was covered in linen, and a place setting included a wine glass and a water glass. The cheapest entrée they had was a wagyu burger—and it was twenty-five dollars.

You could get a double with bacon at Route 66 for fourteen.

But more than my awe at the fact that Pistol had brought me to such a fancy place, I was trying to figure out how this table, with that view, and the man across from me in his Wild Stallions kutte made sense.

I set down my menu and leaned across the table, speaking in a hushed voice as I said, “I’m trying to piece this all together. If this is how you normally eat, I’m sorry I fed you bacon grilled cheese the other night.”

His focus still aimed at his menu, he replied, “I’ve never been here before.”

“You haven’t?” I asked, straightening in my seat.

He shook his head once. “Buddy of mine on the inside used to talk about comin’ here. He’d joke about it on nights when the slop was particularly bad—pretend he was eatin’ filet mignon. On my way out, he told me to make sure I made it here at least once.” Pistol paused long enough to look over at me before he concluded, “So, here I am.”

There was something about that I liked.

I wasn’t sure if it was proof he was a man of his word, but I thought it said something about how he valued his friendships.

Whether or not it held any significance he chose tonight to try out the restaurant, I couldn’t say—but it made me feel special anyway.

Our server came over to fill our water glasses and take our drink orders. Pistol asked her to suggest a bottle of wine, and a few minutes later, we each had a glass of something red and smooth.

He ordered the rack of lamb for dinner.

I chose the duck.

When in Rome, and all that.

Then we were alone, with our wine and the rest of the night before us.