Page 41 of Awaiting the Storm
“I just wanted to check on you. And bring your hat back. And … ask you to dinner.”
My stomach tightens. “Dinner?”
He nods.
“Not for nothing, but I’ve barely been able to keep water down all day. I don’t think dinner is in the cards for me,” I say.
He chuckles. “Not tonight. I was thinking tomorrow. If you think you’ll have sufficiently recovered by then.”
I glance over my shoulder and see Charli and Shelby peeking out of the barn. They both give me a thumbs-up, and I scowl at them.
Turning back to Caison, I shake my head, but before I can say anything, he lifts his palms.
“Not a date. A truce. A conversation. You and me, talking. I figure after last night, maybe we crossed out of hostile-acquaintance territory. Hope so anyway.”
I hesitate. My walls are climbing back up with every breath. “Caison …”
“Just dinner,” he insists.
Charli appears suddenly at my side. “She’d love to.”
I whip my head around. “Charli,” I warn.
“She’ll go,” Shelby echoes from the troughs, grinning. “It’s just dinner, Matty. A girl’s gotta eat.”
I glare at both of them.
Caison smiles faintly. “Yes?”
I glance toward the arena and freeze.
Carl is standing on the fence rail, watching. His expression is dark—jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, and eyes narrowed on us.
I turn back toCaison. “Fine. Dinner,” I agree, and I regret the words even as I say them.
His smile widens. “Great. I’ll be here to pick you up at six.”
I shake my head. “Work doesn’t stop around here until seven, and I need time to shower, unless you want your date to smell like manure.”
He nods, unfazed. “Eight it is then. We can throw some steaks on the grill at my place.”
I shake my head. “I’d rather it’s at a restaurant. And I’ll meet you there.”
That earns me a quirked brow. “You don’t trust me enough to get in a vehicle with me?”
I narrow my eyes at him because we both know I was curled up in the cab of his truck less than twenty-four hours ago.
I don’t trust me.
“Nope,” I lie, popping the P extra hard.
His smile shifts—less teasing now, more serious. “Fair enough, I guess,” he says. “Although I wanted to cook for you. Impress you with my culinary skills.”
“Still not going to your place.”
He chuckles. “Okay then. You pick the spot.”
“The Foraged Bistro,” I say, thinking of the little restaurant on the outskirts of town. Quiet. Excellent food. Less likely we’ll run into every busybody in Wildhaven.
