Page 50 of Shattered Fate

Wincing, I say, “Sorry. That was thoughtless.” I shut her door, round the truck’s hood, and climb behind the wheel.

She’s already latched her seatbelt and twists in her seat. “Don’t worry about it. It did feel that way, but you would have liked my dad and I know he would have liked you. He didn’t take any bullshit, like you.”

“Thanks. That actually means a lot to me.”

It does. Kagan Maddox was a good man and he made enemies being kind, honest, and doing the right thing. It’s a huge compliment that I remind Zarah of him.

I buckle my seatbelt and turn the engine over. It doesn’t need to warm up—I wasn’t in the house that long. “You look nice. I didn’t tell you before.”

“Thanks.”

The twinkle lights hanging in the trees catch her blush.

On the way into the city, we fall into a comfortable silence. I’m beginning to learn that about her. That she values not only silence, but an easy one. Two people comfortable enough with each other they don’t have to speak. Some couples need a long time to get there, but Zarah and I sat this way in the café and it didn’t feel unpleasant.

I set the cruise control, shake out my shoulders, and settle into the drive. I’m early enough there are plenty of cars leaving the city—commuters going home after work.

“Can I hold your hand?” I ask.

“I’d like that.”

Her skin is soft and warm. Though we don’t speak, the ride isn’t boring, and it’s no time at all before I’m parking downtown near the Sweet Apple pub. People are grabbing an early evening drink, and the place is packed.

The hostess she sees Zarah and shrieks. “I’m so happy to see you!” she says, flinging her arms around my date, and Zarah disappears in a cloud of arms and bosom.

“Hey, Monique. You’re still here, huh?”

“No place else I’d rather be,” Monique says, picking up two laminated menus off a wooden hostess podium. “Besides, I’m waiting for that hunk of a man to ask me out. No such luck, yet.” She winks.

The man in question is a burly Black bartender, who, at the moment, is shaking a martini mixer, the silver capsule tiny in his beefy hands.

“He’ll do it if he knows what’s good for him.” Zarah waves, and the bartender grins and juts out his chin in hello. “Do you have room for us?”

“Sure do, darlin’. Stella called ahead.”

Zarah’s eyes widen. “Oh. I never thought to.”

“It’s okay. We got you covered.”

I watch the exchange and Zarah’s reaction to the reservation, and my heart plummets. She didn’t think to call ahead for herself. Well, neither did I. I smooth her hair, and she looks over her shoulder at me and sighs.

Monique seats us at a corner booth and slides the menus onto the table in front of us. “Your server will be right with you. She’s new. Be good to her.”

“Because I’m so scary,” Zarah says, shaking her head.

She’s different here than at the coffeehouse, and I can’t put my finger on why. She seems more outgoing, confident. The staff knows her, and she shines. No wonder why she chose to eat here.

Not that I mind. I can’t lie—I was a little worried where she’d want to have our meal and how that would affect my wallet. Pop and I do okay, like I said before, but there are only so many times a month I can afford to eat at the restaurants I’m sure Zarah favors. The Sweet Apple is my style, burger baskets, chicken tender platters, and onion rings. I choose a cheeseburger and a soda, and she orders a four-cheese pasta bowl and strawberry lemonade.

We sit for a little while without talking, and I watch the bustle of the bar, a group of guys at the other end of the restaurant groaning over a football team’s loss. Monique and the bartender are flirting, and I don’t think it will be long before she wears him down. The waitresses are classier than I’ve seen working in a pub, dressed all in black and heels so high they must need to soak their feet after their shifts.

Zarah twists her straw wrapper around her finger. “We don’t have anything in common,” she says, and her feminine Adam’s apple bobs up and down. She’s trying not to cry.

Shit.

I’ve been so busy trying to help her feel comfortable that I did the complete opposite.

Covering her hand with mine, I stop her fidgeting. “That’s not true. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to push you into a conversation.”

---