Page 113 of Waking Olivia

It’s a question I don’t even need tocontemplate. I trust him more than anyone alive. More than I trust myself. “Yes.”

“Then come on,” he says, lacing his fingers through mine. “Let’s go eat.”

We drive into town and he parks beside a restaurant I’ve seen before but never dreamed I’d one day enter. It looks expensive, and I want to dig my heels in and refuse, but I bite my lip and take his hand instead.

We walk in the door, the warm air in the lobby whipping around us like a blanket, and I take everything in: the dark paneled walls, the white linen tablecloths already set with wine glasses, which shimmer under the glow of candlelight. Will squeezes my hand, knowing instinctively that my anxiety just grew by a mile.

The hostess is a girl about my age, maybe a little older, pretty and showing way too much cleavage. She sees us—or, I should say, she sees myboyfriend. She’s looking at him like he’s her winning lottery ticket. Will asks for a table and she gives him her widest smile, grabbing menus while she licks her lips and tugs her low-cut dress even lower.

We follow her through the restaurant, her hips swaying so much you’d think she was in a Shakira video, and then she leans over as she seats us, letting her cleavage spill forward, to ask Will if the table is okay. He absent-mindedly tells her it’s fine, with a polite smile, but I shoot her a nasty look as she walks away.

He’s watching me. “What’s with the face?” he asks, grinning. “I know you don’t want to be here but it’s not her fault.”

“Did you seriously not notice the way she was acting with you?” I demand. “She practically shoved her rack in your face.”

He looks genuinely, adorably confused. “I didn’t notice anything.”

“I’m not sure how you failed to noticethat.”

He laughs, but it sounds slightly disgruntled. “It’s about time you spent some time in my shoes.”

I gasp. He’s got to be kidding. How many times did I have to watch Jessica sitting in his lap or implying they’d just had sex? Showing up on the track in her fuck-me pumps and short skirt? “Yourshoes? You’re the one who had a girlfriend all fall!”

“I’ve put up with plenty, believe me,” he says with a scowl, setting down the wine list.

I roll my eyes. “Is this about Brendan again? I already told you he was just acting like that to make you pull your head out of your ass. He’s never laid a finger on me.”

“Isawhim lay a finger on you,remember?” Will asks, his face clouding. I really need to stop bringing that up. “And do you know how many fucking times I had to listen to Brofton hitting on you on the bus? Or the football team with that stupid song, sitting on the bleachers watching you come in from a run like it was a lingerie show?You’re so used to it you don’t even know it’s happening.”

I wave it away. “None of that meant anything.”

“Just like that girl doing whatever she theoretically did means nothing. It meant so little that I didn’t even see it.”

He’s right. The football players, Brofton—they barely registered because I only had eyes for Will. Is it so inconceivable that he might feel the same way?

“Maybe,” I say reluctantly.

“Definitely,” he replies, his mouth softening, a hint of laughter behind it.

I smile. “It’s our first date and we’re already arguing. That can’t be good.”

“I bet arguing with me made you feel right at home though, didn’t it?” he asks with a low laugh.

And the funny thing is that itdid. Neither of us are different here, as I feared we might be. He’s the same guy who often annoys me and always thrills me, the same guy who can get me to undress with simply a look, and right now he’s watching me across a candlelit table with a smile I’ve never seen him give anyone else.

“You’re better now?” he asks.

“I am.”

“Good,” he says. “Because even if we’re arguing, this is still the best first date I’ve ever had.”

By the time our meal concludes, I feel all warm inside and relaxed from a glass of red wine and can’t even remember why I was nervous about this. I love being here with Will, hearing his stories about climbing and about how unbelievably bad he was in high school. I love that I can watch him, take in the flash of his teeth when he laughs, the slow curve of his reluctant smile. And I love that beneath the table, my legs brush against his, and every time it happens he registers it with a look that makes me shudder in the best kind of way.

So I rub my leg against his, this time very, very intentionally. His eyelids lower ever so slightly and his mouth goes slack. I think about how many times I’ve seen that look on his face without realizing what it meant, that it’s the look he has when he wants something and is doing his best to restrain himself. Except his restraint is no longer necessary. Thank God.

I kick off my shoe and lift the hem of his pants with my toes so I can run my foot along his bare skin. His eyes meet mine across the table, vivid in the dim light, and his mouth opens slightly as he exhales. He pushes his plate away and his glance falls to my mouth.

“Maybe we should get the check,” he breathes.

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