Page 63 of Claimed By My Exiled Alphas
“You clean up pretty well too.” She climbed in, and I caught vanilla and honey mixed with something warmer. Her scent always did things to my ability to think clearly.
The drive to Millbrook took twenty-five minutes. We talked about easy things at first. The bistro’s remediation was ahead of schedule. My consulting work with a new client in Denver. Jace had texted the group chat about finding a massive chanterelle patch. Hollis had sent book recommendations for all three of us based on our conversation Sunday.
“He really does that?” I asked. “Curates reading lists for people?”
“It’s his love language,” Talia said. “Acts of service through literary analysis.”
“That’s very him.” I navigated the turn toward downtown Millbrook. “I’ve been reading the Thoreau essays he recommended. They’re better than I expected.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I associate Thoreau with pretentious college kids trying to sound deep. But Hollis pointed out specific passages about choosing principle over comfort, and they resonated.”
She was quiet for a moment, then said, “You three really are starting to be friends, aren’t you?”
“I think so. Jace invited me on a patrol hike next week. Hollis and I have been texting about architecture. It’s unfamiliar but not unpleasant.”
“Unfamiliar?”
“I don’t have friends, generally. Professional contacts, strategic relationships, people I tolerate for mutual benefit. But actual friends who want to spend time together because they enjoy each other’s company?” I pulled into the restaurant parking lot. “That’s new territory.”
“How does it feel?”
“Terrifying. Good. Both simultaneously.”
I came around to open her door, and she accepted my hand getting out. The contact sent warmth up my arm that I was learning to associate with her. Want mixed with comfort, possession tangled with care.
The restaurant was exactly what I’d hoped. Warm lighting, exposed brick, small tables that allowed intimate conversation without feeling isolated. The hostess led us to a corner booth I’d specifically requested, private enough for honest discussion.
“This is lovely,” Talia said, sliding into the booth. “How did you find it?”
“Research. I called four restaurants, read reviews, checked menus to make sure they had options you’d actually want to eat.” I settled across from her. “Then I made reservations at all four and canceled three this afternoon after deciding this one had the best probability of success.”
She laughed, genuine and warm. “You made four reservations?”
“I told you I make lists for everything. Dating strategy is no different.”
“That’s simultaneously very sweet and slightly concerning.”
“Welcome to how my brain works. Everything’s a problem to be analyzed and optimized.”
The waiter appeared with water and menus. I’d already reviewed the menu online, had identified three dishes Talia would probably enjoy based on her comments about food over the past month. But I kept that analysis to myself. Some things didn’t need to be shared.
“The osso buco is supposed to be excellent,” I said instead. “And their pasta is all made in-house.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“No. But I did extensive research.”
“Of course you did.” Her lips quirked in amusement as she studied the menu, and I found myself watching the way she considered options. The slight furrow between her eyebrows when she concentrated. The way she bit her lower lip making decisions.
I wanted to kiss that lip. Had wanted to for weeks now. Tonight felt like maybe I finally could.
“So,” she said after we’d ordered. “This is our first real date. Just the two of us, deliberately romantic instead of accidentally intimate while working on permits.”
“Does that make you nervous?”
“Terrified. You?”
