Page 83 of Ice Darling
Brennon winces as the handshake goes on for a beat longer than necessary. His gaze remains on Renthrow as if trying to figure him out.
“Did you finish everything you were working on?” I ask politely.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m late. We had an international call at the last minute. You know how that goes, Delia.”
I scrunch my nose. “I don’t miss those international calls at all.”
“The world never sleeps, and neither do we, right?” Brennon laughs.
I laugh too, though not as robustly. I’m not sure what I expected when I saw Brennon again, but it wasn’t…this. After he turned me down, I phased out of his life until, eventually, we stopped talking altogether.
The way he’s acting tonight—it’s like that confession and the resulting deterioration of our friendship never happened.
“Did you order already?” Brennon folds up the sleeves of his shirt and undoes a button. I wouldn’t think anything of it except for the fact that he watches me from the sides of his eyes. It’s as if he wants me to see. Or like he wants to gauge whether or not I like what I see.
My instincts flare a warning signal, but I don’t know what kind of warning to heed. It’s not like Brennon is actively flirting with me. Maybe I’m just overthinking because of our history.
“So far, we’ve only ordered drinks,” I say, casting a confused look at Renthrow.
He leans in closer and brushes my face. “Eyelash.” He shows me and then blows it away as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to touch me. “What’s good here?”
My brain goes temporarily blank.
Across the table, Brennon’s left eye twitches. “The new chef is known for her wagyu steak paired with grilled asparagus.” Brennon lifts his hand to get the waiter’s attention. “I’ll get three of that.” He pauses and gives Renthrow a slightly less friendlylook than he did when he first walked in. “Unless you have any objections.”
“I don’t, but Cordelia might.”
“Why would she have a problem?” Brennon demands.
Renthrow leans back in his chair. “She’ll tell you if she wants to.”
“I don’t eat steak.”
“Since when? I remember you scarfing down your share of our private chef’s Italian meatballs when you came over with Gwen.”
At the mention of my sister, my shoulders stiffen. I’d forgotten—or maybe I hadn’t truly allowed myself to think—of how seeing someone from my old life would encourage discussions about my sister.
“Gwen?” Renthrow’s eyes flit to me.
I pull my shaking fingers under the table. “I’ll find something else on the menu.”
Renthrow notices me trembling. He places one large palm over mine, blanketing my knuckles.
I look up at him.
His eyes are soft, and he gives my fingers a little squeeze.
Warmth blankets the knifing sensation. I feel the distinct ache of loss, but it’s not sharp and pointed.
“I’m sorry,” Brennon says in a reserved tone, and I know he’s apologizing for more than just choosing the wrong meal.
“I’ll look for something else,” I mumble, picking up my menu.
Renthrow keeps his arm draped over the back of my chair. His long, thick fingers are a breath away from my shoulder. It feels really close to a hug, and I find it comforting.
“I can’t decide between the fried snapper and the grilled salmon,” I whisper to him, showing him the menu. “They both look great.”
He regards the menu thoughtfully. “How about I get the snapper, and you get the grilled salmon, and we share.”
