Page 33 of Borrowed Pain
I stood for a moment longer.
"The kitchen staff isn't planning an ambush," Miles said quietly. He reached out and touched my wrist.
The sensation anchored me, pulling me back into the present moment.
"Sorry. It's hard to turn off."
"I know." Miles withdrew his hand. "I'm used to it from my brothers, but maybe you could try? Just for today?"
I sat down. "I can try."
Our server appeared and set down a basket of breadsticks that smelled like rosemary and sea salt.
"Something to drink?" she asked.
Miles pointed at the wine list. "The Chianti Classico—food-friendly?"
"Pairs beautifully with our sauces, cuts through the richness."
"Make it a bottle. We're walking." Miles glanced at me. "Unless you prefer something else?"
When had anyone last cared about my preferences? "Chianti's fine."
After our server disappeared, Miles broke a breadstick in two, offering half across the table. It tasted of herbs and butter.
The server returned with wine, going through the ritual of pour-and-taste. Miles nodded approval, and she filled both glasses with liquid the color of garnets.
Miles lifted his glass. "To tactical miscalculations."
"Such as?"
"Dinner dates with podcast hosts. Kissing former agents in converted warehouses." His eyes met mine over the rim. "Whatever this is that we're pretending isn't happening."
The wine tasted like dark fruit. It warmed my throat, slightly loosening the tension between my shoulder blades.
"Something wrong with agents and hosts?"
Miles grinned. "I've always had questionable taste in men."
Our appetizer platter arrived—antipasti scattered across scarred wood. Miles efficiently assembled bites.
"That questionable taste must come with stories."
Miles speared an olive. "Nothing as interesting as federal conspiracy investigations. What about your history? Dating life can't be straightforward when your idea of small talk involves unsolved murders and government cover-ups."
"Busted. Surely, you noticed my conspicuous lack of dinner companions."
Miles laughed. "Don't ask my brothers how long it's been since I brought someone to the weekly family dinner."
"That surprises me."
Miles ignored the comment and launched into a description of charming domesticity. "Last Sunday, we got into this massive argument about healthcare infrastructure." He reached for a breadstick. "Matthew started getting worked up—you know how paramedics get when you question their protocols."
Miles straightened in his chair, breadstick held like a professor's pointer.
"'Ladies and gentlemen,'" he began, voice taking on a slightly nasal, authoritative tone. "We must address the systemic inefficiencies in our current medical response paradigm. The data clearly indicates suboptimal resource allocation during peak demand scenarios."
I choked on my wine.
