Page 18 of Under Southern Stars
Another buzz.
Troy: Madison says you have plans tonight. Must be nice to have free time. We need to discuss her college fund. Etherum is up and I have thoughts.
Delete.
The passive-aggressive jab is typical Troy. During our marriage, he’d mastered the art of making me feel guilty for every moment not devoted to him or Madison. A girls’ night out? Selfish. A professional conference? Unnecessary. His free time was essential; mine was indulgent.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The dress is probably too much. The heels definitely are. What was I thinking? This isn’t even a real date. It’s just two coworkers grabbing dinner after I used him as a human shield against Cameron.
My phone buzzes again.
Maria: I bet that boy cleans up NICE. Have fun tonight! ??
Great. The entire hospital’s probably betting on how this goes.
I arrive at Giuseppe’s fifteen minutes early, suddenly self-conscious about everything—my dress, my hair, the fact that I’m here at all. The hostess gives me a knowing smile when I ask for “a nice table for two, please.” She leads me to a corner booth with a small candle flickering in the center.
“Date night?” she asks, setting down menus.
“Just dinner,” I reply automatically, then catch myself. “I mean, yes. I suppose it is.”
“I’ll bring water for both of you,” she says with a wink. “And our wine list?”
“Please.”
8:39. I’m sitting in Giuseppe’s at a corner table, watching the door like a teenager. The waiter’s already asked twice if I’m ready to order.
I ask him to give me a minute, I’m waiting for one more. Madison’s words echo as I fiddle with the menu. Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s time to stop being so careful, so controlled, so calculated, so…
CHAPTER TEN
JACK
I’m standing outside Giuseppe’s like a complete muppet, checking my reflection in the dark window for the tenth bloody time. The shirt’s wrong. Everything’s wrong. Should’ve worn the blue one. Or maybe the jacket. Christ, I don’t even own a proper jacket anymore.
Rodriguez would be taking the piss right now if he could see me. “Smooth operator” my arse.
The restaurant glows warm through the windows—candlelit tables, exposed brick, the kind of place that knows what it’s doing with both wine and pasta. I can see the corner booth from here. Can see her.
And that’s when everything stops.
I am, just…fucking speechless.
