Page 34 of One Wrong Move

“Almost two weeks at this point.”

His eyebrows wiggle. “My point exactly.”

“Come on, don’t be skeptical. The place I’m taking you looks cool.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says. But he’s smiling, just a bit, and excitement makes my steps lighter. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed having a friend in the past few weeks. Since I made the decision, since I packed up my life, since there was no time for anything but logistics and guilt.

We come to a stop outside the Mediterranean Grill restaurant. Large windows give ample view of the interior, the low-standing tables, surrounded by pillows instead of chairs. The middle of each table is inlaid with a firepit, allowing diners to grill their own meat.

“Here?” Nate asks. But his voice is amused.

“Yes. Doesn’t it look cool?”

“It does. It also looks like fire hazards are your thing, Harp.”

I chuckle and reach for the door. “Good thing you’re here then. You can turn off the fire alarm. Let’s go.”

We get a table in the corner. The lighting is dim, and we sink onto the pillows across from each other. Nate grumbles a bit. But it’s easy to see in his expression that he’s inwardly amused, and something inside me softens. Good. This isn’t the sort of place I could have ever convinced Dean to go to.

We order and are soon presented with a spread of food. I ask Nate about his job. He details it slowly, reluctantly, and dryly. The third time he says that he’s a glorified errand boy, I roll my eyes.

“That’s not true, though. I know it’s not.”

He reaches for his glass of wine. “And how would you know?”

“I’ve heard things. About what you do. Expanding the company in Europe.”

“Yes. Among other things. But mostly, I just do what New York tells me to do.” There’s a glint in his eyes, though.

“Why does that make me think you never do exactly what you’re told?”

“No, it happens sometimes. If it’s the right person asking.” He holds his wine glass casually—the stem dangling through his fingers—and leans back against the pillows. “What about you, Harper?”

“What about me?”

“Do you ever do exactly what you’re told,” he says. In the dim lighting, his face is half in shadow, but I can still see the spark in his eyes.

I swallow. “Sometimes. But I’m trying to shake the habit.”

“Mm-hmm. Becoming a rebel.”

“Well, trying to, at any rate.”

He nods. Takes a sip of his wine. “Which is why you’ve made a list of things to do. Like trying a new recipe or staying out all night.”

My eyes widen. “You bastard!”

He breaks into a grin. “I’m not blind, Harp.”

“How much did you read?”

“Not much. Not at the time, anyway.”

“What?”

He shakes his head, still smiling, and taps his temple. “I have a photographic memory. Your list is stored in here.”

“You’re kidding me.” I bury my face in my hands and wonder if I can sink through these beautifully-patterned pillows. “Okay. If you’re gonna judge me, judge me in silence.”

---