Page 7 of He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

‘He’s here.’

‘Follow your heart!’ she says. ‘Don’t you dare ask icky Vicki to be your maid of honor either, or you’ll have hell to pay.’

‘Of course it’s you.’

She smiles wide. ‘Good luck!’

I shove my phone into my bag and turn to Tristan as he gets out of his cab, an anxiety-ridden smile plastered on my face.

‘Sweet pea.’ He greets me with the name I hate. My dad calls me sweet pea. Or he did when we were on speaking terms. ‘Shall we go in?’

‘I’m ready.’ My voice wobbles as I say it, causing him to study me, searching for the reason.

Pull it together, Hollyn. You’ve been doing wife business at girlfriend prices for eight years. Time to move this roller coaster into the next bend or make an emergency exit. Now is the time.

FireFly is one of those multi-experience restaurants with many mood settings within one building. Romantic rooms with fireplaces and lit candles. Outdoor garden seating. Even a library room filled with books and leather.

My favorite is the one we are being led through right now. It’s dimly lit with large boho basket light fixtures, flickering candles under colorful glass shades, cushioned bench seats lined with pillows, and vintage décor that makes you want to spend hours sitting and chatting with whomever you’re with, forgetting that an outside world exists.

I hang my bag from the back of my chair and sit across from Tristan. He immediately opens his menu, ignoring me entirely until his phone buzzes with an incoming text. He glances at the screen but doesn’t put down his menu or respond.

‘Wine?’ a server asks as she approaches our table.

‘One rosé and one Chardonnay,’ Tristan answers without looking away from his menu.

‘Please and thank you.’ I finish his sentence for him.

Our server gives me a gracious grin. I’d been a server my entire adult life until recently. I know how jerk-ish people can be, and I hate that Tristan can sometimes be one of them.

Tristan glances over his menu at me. ‘You know I hate when you do that.’

‘And you know I hate when you don’t. It’s polite, that’s all. She’s not beneath you.’

His eyes flick from me back to his menu. I don’t need the menu. I already know what I want. I’m a woman who prefers the comfort of things I know I love than the surprise of things I might not. The fettucine here is either to die for or soggy as if it was premade and reheated. A tad hit and miss, but my fingers are crossed for the former.

‘Flowers?’ A man selling individual roses stops at our table. He glances between the two of us, but Tristan waves him away without so much as looking up at him. I give him an apologetic shrug.

Romantic gesture missed. I’m not surprised. Tristan isn’t exactly romantic. Hewas; when we first started dating, he’d do all the things. Open my doors, share desserts, hold my hand, the works. He’s since gotten over all that.

‘How was your meeting?’ I ask, setting the menu aside.

‘Unremarkable.’ He closes his menu, setting it atop mine as the server delivers our wine. She takes our orders and leaves us with our drinks and my anxiety. ‘Your day was…?’

‘So far, so good. I bought a new dress specifically for tonight.’

His eyes dart to my chest, the ruched sweetheart neckline in his gaze, my breasts now the object of his almost absent look of approval. ‘Very nice.’

The buzzing of another text causes him to furrow his brow and he grabs his wine, taking a large swig before setting it back on the table. When he reaches into his inside jacket pocket, my heart starts to pound.

This is it. Deep breath, Hols. It’s just a proposal, not a bomb. Every serious relationship eventually moves into engagement territory.

He pulls an envelope from his jacket, handing it to me. My name, Hollyn Matthews, scribbled across it in his nearly illegible handwriting.

‘What’s this?’ I ask, not expecting him to do it via love letter. Maybe he’s more romantic than I expected?

‘A menagerie of things, really.’

I open the envelope, pulling out a handful of documents. I glance through the papers quickly.

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