Page 37 of Trick or Treat Nurse at My Feet
Falling back against the pillows, I stare at the ceiling. The worst part is, I really do like Tyler. His laugh, his focus when I was talking, the way he never once played on his phone during our entire coffee date, unlike Ryan, who'd be glued to his screen even during dinners together.
"How do guys usually act on second dates?" I ask, suddenly anxious. "It's been so long since I've had a proper one."
"Honey, I am the wrong person to ask. My second dates usually involve less conversation and more horizontal gymnastics."
"Sylas!"
"What? I'm not the relationship guy; you are. Which is why it's been torture watching you waste your energy on the Nightmare on Date Street for eight months."
Groaning, my hands press into my cheeks. "Don't remind me."
Sylas props himself up on one elbow, his expression turning earnest. "All joking aside, do you want my actual advice?"
"Please."
"Go on the date. Be yourself. If Tyler is genuine, great. If not, you'll figure it out. But don't pre-reject yourself because you're scared."
"Pre-reject myself?"
"It's what you do," Sylas says gently. "You find reasons it won't work before it has a chanceto fall apart on its own."
"That's..." I start to protest, but falter. "Actually, scarily accurate."
"I know. I'm wise beyond my years," Sylas says, reverting to his usual dramatic self. "Now, more importantly, what are you wearing to dinner tomorrow?"
Bolting upright, a panic slices through me. "Oh god, I hadn't even thought about that."
Sylas grins wickedly. "Lucky for you, I have. I'm thinking those jeans that make your ass look like it could launch a thousand ships, and that green button-down that matches your eyes."
As Sylas dives into picking apart my sad excuse for a wardrobe, I'm hit with this weird mix of pure panic and total excitement. Maybe Tyler is too good to be true. Perhaps this will end in disaster. But as I lie in our pillow nest, laughing at Sylas's increasingly outrageous suggestions, I realize I want to find out.
For the first time in months, possibly longer, I am genuinely looking forward to a date. My heart does this weird little skip-hop thing that my nursing brain wants to classify as palpitations, but my regular brain knows is just pure anticipation.
After years of mediocre coffee meetups with guys whose names I barely remember, followed by the Ryan Era, the highlight being that spectacularly awful dinner where I had to diagnose his lactose intolerance the hard way, he farted all night.
This feels different. Better. Like maybe the universe isn't entirely determined to make my love life a case study in emotional trauma.
The address Tyler texted me leads to a two-story Victorian house with Christmas lights strung along its wraparound porch. A small, hand-painted sign reading "Rosalie's"hangs beside the door, so discreet I would have missed it entirely if I hadn't been looking.
Hesitating on the sidewalk, double-checking my phone to make sure I'm in the right place. This looks more like someone's home than a restaurant.
"Ethan!"
I turn to see Tyler jogging up the street, waving. He's wearing a deep blue button-down that makes his shoulders look even broader in the twilight, a stark contrast to the blood-splattered psycho killer from Halloween night.
"Sorry," he says, slightly out of breath as he reaches me. "I was going to be here early, but parking was a nightmare."
"No problem. I just got here," I gesture toward the house. "This is the place?"
Tyler smiles, looking adorably nervous as he nods. "It's not what most people expect."
He steps forward to open the screen door for me, his hand briefly touching the small of my back as he guides me inside. The gentle pressure sends a warm flutter through my chest that has nothing to do with the temperature.
Inside, the former home has been transformed into the coziest restaurant I've ever seen. Mismatched vintage tables are scattered throughout what must have once been the living and dining rooms. Local artwork covers floral-patterned wallpaper, and the lighting comes from an eclectic collection of antique lamps rather than harsh overhead lights.
A hostess who can't be older than nineteen leads us to a corner table by a bay window. As we settle in, I notice Tyler waving to the bartender and receiving a warm nod in return.
"You come here a lot?" The cloth napkin unfolds in my hands, clearly having seen better days.
