Page 68 of Forbidden Dark Vows

I smile at her, my fingers entwined in her hair. “Hawaiian.”

23

RUBY

I don’t knowhow Harry convinces his dad to fly into Chicago the following day, but after a whirlwind twenty-four hours I find myself walking into a new restaurant called Charlie Trotter’s, my hand folded into Harry’s, and nerves making my mouth dry.

Harry insisted on buying me a new outfit: a burgundy-colored dress that clings in all the right places with a Bardot neckline exposing my shoulders. I’ve never felt so unlike me, but neither have I ever felt so sexy, which might have something to do with Harry whispering in my ear that I look beautiful. I caught a glimpse of the price tag before Harry paid for the dress—it was more than I earn in a week—and wanted to cry at the extravagance. But he has style, I’ll give him that.

He is looking debonair—as my dad would say—in a silver suit with a faint burgundy pinstripe, pink shirt, and burgundy tie. Coordinated. Knotting us together as a couple.

People stare at us as the maître d’ guides us to our table, and I gasp when I realize that my mom and Harry’s dad are already seated.

I blink the restaurant back into focus. But no, they’re still there. For a few brief moments, I have them all to myself, as they sit there staring into their drinks, blissfully unaware that they are being watched, and I can’t help thinking that something has already passed between them before we arrived.

A conspiracy to keep me and Harry apart?

Something that they can agree on after thirteen years of despising each other from a distance. A common ground. Perhaps they’ve even stumbled into a silent agreement to leave the past behind … for their sakes, not ours.

Then, my mom looks up, checks out my outfit, calculating how much it must’ve cost before a tentative smile appears and vanishes in a heartbeat. It was for my eyes only. She never intended Harry to claim it for himself.

Karl’s gaze doesn’t quite reach me, and my stomach lists sideways as if I’m walking on a boat. I sway, my head spinning, and Harry grips my hand tightly.

“Are you alright?” He stops a short distance from the table, giving me a moment. Breathing space. He sensed it too: the battle to come.

“I’m fine.” I force a smile.

It must be the stress of my dad being sick and not knowing how tonight is going to go. I realize that all I’ve eaten today is half a cheese and ham croissant that my mom brought into the hospital for me, and now it’s threatening to come back up.

I need to sit down.

I need to eat.

I need tonight to be over so that we can get on with the rest of our lives.

The maître d’ helps me into my seat and says that he’ll allow us some time to look at the wine list. Karl still hasn’t looked at me, and from my mom’s rosy cheeks, I’m guessing that her almost empty glass isn’t her first drink of the evening.

“Hello, Celia.” Harry offers her a warm smile that isn’t reciprocated. “Thank you for coming.”

“Aren’t you being a little presumptuous? You haven’t even ordered the wine yet.”

“Mom.” I try to keep my voice low and my eyes down, but I don’t miss Karl’s smirk. Now, I’m almost certain that they arranged to meet here early to discuss tactics.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Harry doesn’t look away. It’s another glimpse of the man who sits in a boardroom with clients, knowing what he wants from the outset and determined to win.

“You gave us no choice.” Karl picks up his glass and downs the dregs, staring at it as if he doesn’t know where it went.

“Wow.” Harry shakes his head. “Are we really doing this? The man who told me we always have a choice when I was growing up?”

“That was when I thought you had the sense to make the correct choices.” Karl signals the waiter to the table and orders another vodka soda for himself.

The waiter glances around the table, and Harry compensates for his father’s rudeness by ordering a bottle of Dom Perignon and a carafe of water.

Harry waits for the waiter to walk away before he says, “Correct choices as inyourchoices.”

“In this, I know I’m right.” Karl Weiss sits back in his seat like a man who has already had the final word.

I bristle. Who does this man think he is to choose who his son can or cannot marry? My mom hasn’t moved, elbows on the table, stroking the outside of her glass like alcohol is going to make this whole situation go away.

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