Page 38 of She Was Made for Me

Still. She’s not stupid.

I settle myself into the chair opposite, ignoring her comment as I reach for the menu. “What do you feel like?”

She studies the menu in silence, and for a second I wonder if this place was a bad choice. But then she looks up at me with wide, excited eyes.

“It all looks so good.”

My mouth pulls into a grin before I can stop it. “It is good. Let’s get a bunch of dishes.”

“Okay,” she agrees, grinning back. As much as I tell myself I need to push her away, that it’s better for us to bicker our way through the project, I can’t deny how good it feels when we get along like this. While I shouldn’t let myself have even this with her, tonight I can’t stop myself.

I flag down the waitress and order way more food than we need, plus a beer for me and Riesling for her—the same drink she had at lunch with her parents last week. She seems surprised that I remember, and I pretend not to notice.

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Sorry I snapped at you earlier. When you were telling me not to eat the pizza, I thought…” Her cheeks color and she looks relieved when the waitress brings the drinks.

“I’d never tell you what to eat.”

Her lips quirk. “But you’re happy to tell me what to do around the house.”

“That’s for your safety, Vi.” And a little, I realize, because I love the way she gets fired up at me. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” I add.

“I guess that makes sense.” She shifts in her seat, dropping her gaze to the table. “Well, anyway. I just haven’t felt that great about… myself lately, so I assumed you were, you know, commenting on my body.”

I consider how to answer. Somehow I don’t think sayingyour body is so divine I want to put my hands all over itis an appropriate response.

“Why are you feeling bad about the way you look?” I ask carefully.

“I’ve, um, put on a little weight. I should make time to exercise, or maybe cook healthier food, but it just feels like there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

God, I understand how she feels. I lived for decades like that—working all hours, convinced there was never enough time in the day, but that always comes at a price. I want to tell her this, but I don’t know how to do it without sounding like I’m lecturing her. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Vi, it’s that she hates being lectured.

The food arrives and she looks down at it with a crease in her brow. I get the sense she’s uncomfortable eating in front of me after that conversation, and I desperately want to make her feel better.

“You have nothing to worry about.” I busy myself with my napkin so I don’t have to meet her gaze. “Seriously. You’re…” Fuck, I think I’m going to say it. “You’re beautiful.” That’s not inappropriate, right? It’s an observation. I’m merely stating a fact.

There’s a long silence while I reach for an olive, chewing slowly as I cast my gaze out across Montague Street. It’s a bustling little shopping and dining area between the more residential streets of Brooklyn Heights, and tonight the restaurants are packed with people high on that summer night feeling, enjoying the fading light.

Eventually I can’t stand the silence, and let my gaze wander back to Violet. She’s studying me over her glass of Riesling, her hazelnut-brown eyes warm in the golden glow of the evening.

“Thank you.” Her voice has taken on a husky purr that makes my pants a little tighter. “You’re not too bad yourself, you know.”

My chest expands and heat swirls down my limbs. I made an effort tonight, putting on a fresh maroon-colored T-shirt over clean jeans and boots, and even styled my hair with a product my barber recommended, since Violet seemed to like the way Owen wore his. I’m not sure it was a conscious decision, but as her eyes drink in my efforts with obvious approval, I feel like a fucking king. She’s looking at me the way she looked at Owen, and God, it’s the best damn feeling in the world.

Shit, we are getting into dangerous territory.

I clear my throat, looking down at my plate.

Don’t smile. Donotsmile.

“I mean, uh…” She shifts in her seat, trying to backpedal. “You look a lot less wild since you had a haircut.”

I want to tell her that I can be very wild under the right circumstances, but instead I say, “I think you mean I look pretty. Isn’t that what you said?”

A laugh tinkles in her throat. “Yeah.Verypretty.” She gives her words a sarcastic edge which breaks the tension, and I breathe out in relief.

Right. Time to change the subject.

“Well, I’m glad I managed to tear you away from your laptop for one evening,” I say, nudging her plate toward her. I’m aiming for lighthearted teasing, but it sounds like I’m being critical.

---