Page 44 of Her Dark Angel

“Thanks,” Nash mutters and wraps a hand around my waist, surprising me. “Is our table ready?”

Matt’s eyes widen as if he had forgotten the fact we are here for dinner and not a social catch-up. “Oh, yes! Right this way. I had my staff put you at a table in the back of the room for some privacy.”

“Thank you,” I say, grateful for his kindness and understanding of the situation. He knows how much I have struggled with the idea of privacy over the years and how I wish I could go unnoticed in this world. But sadly, that’s not my reality. It took many years for me to accept it, but it doesn’t mean I don’t still want as much privacy as this lifestyle will allow me.

A round table in the back of the room is set neatly with silverware and the same decor as the rest of the room. A small pot of black roses sits between the two plates and I can’t help but laugh.

Matt smiles at me as I slide into the chair across the table from Nash. “I knew you would like it. White and cream decor has never appealed to you.”

“Where did you even find black roses?”

“They’re fake.” He chuckles, his lips tipping up at the corners. “But they give off the illusion they’re real, no?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “I’ve missed you, Matt.”

“And I’ve missed you, Kin.” He places a comforting hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “Enjoy your dinner and let’s catch up soon, okay? I’m sure there is a lot to discuss.” I don’t miss the way his eyes flick toward Nash across the table, whose mismatched eyes are watching our interaction intently. “Just holler for me if you need anything.”

“Of course.”

Matt drops his hand from my shoulder and turns to walk away.

Silverware clinking against plates, soft chatter, and classical music fill the restaurant as I pick up the menu in front of me. Although I know the menu well, my eyes skim the words to see if there is anything new. When I spot a new chicken dish, I decide to order that instead of the usual creamy pasta I lean toward.

Nash clearing his throat makes my head snap in his direction. “What?”

He clicks his tongue and shrugs. “Oh, nothing. That loser had a raging hard-on for you if you didn’t notice.”

My cheeks flare at his choice of words for my friend. “Shut up, Nash. Matt and I are just friends, so whatever you think you saw is all in your head.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back in the plush seat. His knee bumps mine as he spreads his long legs, sending a bolt of heat through my body. “I know what I saw, little devil. He wants you.”

I roll my eyes. Matt is my friend, nothing more. Maybe his reaction stems from something deeper. Something that has happened in his past for him to think a man and woman can’t just be friends.

“I won’t tolerate you talking about my friend like that. We have been through a lot together over the years and I see him as nothing more than a friend.”

A snort sounds from across the table. “Okay, sure. I don’t think he shares the same sentiment.”

“Just shut up and look over the menu,” I huff. “I would prefer to get this over and done with so I can be as far away from you as possible.”

Nash’s sharp eyes meet mine from across the table and they narrow ever so slightly. “You took the words right out of my mouth, Blondie.”

Silence befalls us as Nash takes his ever-loving time to skim the menu before deciding he wants a beef dish. Our waitress comes by to take our drink order and I nearly choke on my saliva when Nash asks for an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels. I have to remind him we are sitting in a five-star restaurant, not a rundown bar where drinking straight from a bottle is considered acceptable.

He settles on a glass of straight Jack and I order a glass of white wine just to have something to sip on. I need something to loosen the tension in my shoulders that comes with being in the presence of Nash Beck.

What do I even say to him? We don’t have much of anything in common besides listening to rock music. He’s a partier who loves to drink alcohol and do drugs, whereas I prefer to limit my alcohol intake and steer clear of drugs.

As if Nash can read my mind, his mismatched eyes find mine and he clears his throat. “So, ah… what’s your favorite… plant?”

My brows shoot up in response as I fight back a smile. That was not what I was expecting him to say. “My favorite plant?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

I shift on the seat and fiddle with the beaded bracelet on my wrist. “Well, I like Wisteria.”

“Why?”

“There used to be a massive Wisteria tree in the backyard of my childhood home. Growing up, I enjoyed running around beneath it and pretending I was in another world with my toys, living a totally different life.” I bite back a smile at the memory of young Kinsley running barefoot through the ankle-high grass with flecks of Wisteria coating the top of the blades, flying my Barbie doll through the air like she had wings and could travel anywhere she wanted. As usual, I was always right there beside her, imagining the next world we traveled to had a purple sky like the Wisteria tree overhead. It’s a core memory for me—one I’ll never forget.

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