Page 32 of Kyle

“I’m just sayin’, if you need an escape from your date, call me.”

I grin. “Hopefully, that won’t be necessary.”

“Right. But if she’s got a bunch of weird piercings and starts talking about UFOs and Big Foot, text me. I’ll come rescue you.”

“Um, you saw her picture. She doesn’t have a bunch of weird piercings.”

“Because no one in the dating app world ever posts a picture that looks nothing like them.”

“That’s sarcasm, right? Because I really don’t know what people in the dating app world do.”

“Good luck. Have fun. Bye.”

“Now you’re pissed.”

“Nope. Everything’s fine. I’ll close up. Go enjoy your date.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“Are we having a fight?”

She throws a wooden spoon at me, and I climb out of the trailer to take down the sandwich board sign and start closing up. Obviously, I’m not leaving Sutton here alone.

I spot her texting and five minutes later, Rafe pulls up to pick her up.

She climbs out of the truck, and we barely speak.

“Bye, Sutton.”

“Bye,” she throws over her shoulder in a hurry to climb on behind Rafe, who barely lifts his chin at me.

I stand, watching them disappear down the street.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kyle—

I pull up near the restaurant and park. Climbing out of my truck, I straighten the cuffs of my black button-down shirt. I’ve got on a pair of dark wash jeans and a thick silver chain bracelet peeking out of the cuff. I don’t do loafers, so I’ve got biker boots under the jeans.

Hopefully, I’m dressed for this place.

Harley Jean told me it’s a fancy steakhouse. I’ve never been here, but my reservation is for seven. This girl’s name is Zora. She’s supposed to meet me at the bar.

When I enter, I check in with the hostess, and she says my table should be ready in the next five to ten minutes, so I head to the bar called Sky. It’s one of those places that looks turn-of-the-century but modernized. The floor is small black and white tile. A wooden barback takes up the entire wall, but it’s all painted dark blue, and the bottles lining the glass shelves in front of the mirrored background are lit in neon. The barstools are sleek, black leather with gold trim. The crowd looks like a mix of men in suits and women in classy workwear.

Zora texted me she’d be in a black strapless top. I spot her immediately. She’s at a seat at the bar, a fancy drink in a martini glass sitting in front of her; its yellow color and sugared rim makes me think it might be a Lemon Drop Martini.

She’s breathtakingly beautiful—long dark hair down to her waist, piercing hazel eyes, and pale olive-toned skin.

As I approach, I realize she’s taking selfies on her phone, and I hang back, waiting to see if she’ll finish.

She takes them at every different angle in her seat. It’s like watching someone trying out to be a supermodel, and it turns me off.

I step between her stool and the one next to her.

She doesn’t notice me the slightest bit.

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