Page 9 of Love Me Boldly

THREE

HOLLY

“Here?” I turned my shocked eyes in Graham’s direction where he sat smugly in my car.

Embarrassment at driving him in my GMC Jimmy, a car that was older than me, fled as soon as Graham flung his body into the passenger seat, belted in, and said, “Bet this works great in the snow.”

There wasn’t a hint of judgment in his eyes, no pity. He hadn’t even hesitated to get into it, like it wasn’t too old, too run-down, andwaytoo rusty for him.

He started giving me directions that were so quick there was barely room to speak about anything else until I was pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant.

We weren’t just going out for dinner at a diner or pizza joint or regular close-to-campus American grill—we were at a steakhouse.

An expensive steakhouse.

“You can’t be serious.” How could he even afford this? We were college students, for crying out loud.

“Sure I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because the meals in this place cost more than my car is worth.”

Graham was still grinning that cocksure grin, and for the first time, I truly wanted to slap it off his face. What in the world was he thinking? That’d we’d work enough hours washing dishes and then be able to afford to eat here?

“That’s not true. Your car is definitely worth more than a dinner here.” He slapped the dashboard, and I was surprised it didn’t crack. “It’s sturdy. Runs great. Practically a classic.”

“Graham.” It was meant to be scolding.

His answering smile said he didn’t take it as such.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve said my name, Holly. I like it. Come on, I’m starving, and stop worrying. Everything will be fine.”

I glanced at him, his expression so confident it edged on arrogance, and back to the restaurant. Outside, it didn’t look anything special. Dark wood and beams made it fit perfectly into the mountain-town vibe, but this was a place that hand-carved your steak at the table.

Just because I was poor didn’t mean I hadn’t heard of the place. Half of my high school’s senior class had come here for prom night and then spent the rest of the following week raving about the food.

It should have excited me to finally step inside, but I’d also heard they only took reservations.

“When did you make the reservation?” I asked Graham as he wrapped his hand around the door handle.

“What do you mean?”

“You need reservations to eat here. When did you make them?”

“Does it matter?”

It didn’t. And yet it did. For some reason, it really did. “Before or after you stalked me this morning?”

“Ah…” He wagged his finger at me. “Not stalking if I knew exactly where you’d be?—”

“Speaking of?—”

“And last night,” he stated, not letting me speak.

“Last night?”

“Yeah. I was hopeful. You hungry yet?”

Starving. The small chicken salad I’d scarfed down at the student union had worn off hours ago, but I was used to the ache of an empty stomach.

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