Page 55 of Tattered Edges

Nevertheless, as we both picked up a fork and cut into opposite sides of the waffle, the thought still lingered.

Any woman who claimed to love him and then forced a choice like that couldn’t have loved him after all.

I knew I would never ask him to choose. Not after learning what I now knew—about the generations of men in his family who owned the pub before him; about the transformation he helped inspire; about Henry, and the awful way he died.

Rory wasn’t royalty, but he bore the responsibility of The King’s Steed like a crown. To ask him to leave was like asking a man to denounce his throne and his birthright. It was unfair.

I didn’t realize how consumed I was by my thoughts until our dessert was half gone and our server returned with our bill. Only, it wasn’t merely the bill he’d brought to the table.

“Hey!” I cried, scowling at Rory as he returned his credit card to his wallet. “You weren’t supposed to pay. This was supposed to be my treat.”

“I said yes to dinner. I didn’t say I’d let you pay.”

“Rory, that was the whole point,” I groaned.

“You’ve expressed your gratitude. You’ll pay me back for the equipment, and we’ll be even.”

I huffed out a sigh, cognizant of the fact this wasn’t a battle I was going to win easily—and definitely not one I’d win if I made a scene in the middle of the restaurant.

Narrowing my eyes at him, I muttered, “This isn’t over, Red.”

The corner of his mouth twitched before he replied, “So you say.”

We finished the rest of our dessert waffle and then bundled up to face the cold. Rather than an Uber, Rory hailed us a cab. Fortunately, this meant when we reached home, I finally had the chance to pay for something. I leaned over him and touched my card to the reader mounted against the door, beating him to the punch.

I didn’t get to see the look on his face as I did it, but I swear he chuckled. Just once. A soft, low sound that made my stomach clench.

Ever the gentlemen, rather than saying goodbye on the side of the road as the taxi drove away, he walked me to my door.

It wasn’t a date.

It wasn’t a date.

We weren’t on a date.

But if we were—it would have been a good one.

“Thanks for dinner,” I said as I fidgeted with my keys.

“You’re welcome.”

I pointed a finger at him and declared, “I should warn you, if a truckload of biscuits appears at your doorstep in the near future, you brought it on yourself.”

My comment earned me a half smile, and for a second, I forgot how to breathe.

The last thing I wanted was to ruin the memory of a nearly perfect night. So, rather than do what I’d been longing to do forweeksnow—I reached for his shoulders, beckoning him closer, then brushed my lips against his cheek.

“Goodnight, Rory,” I whispered before I let him go and headed inside.

Four Days Later

Aftermynon-datewithRory on Monday, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Not merely that night, but almost every moment in the days that followed.

I replayed our conversation at dinner.

I conjured memories of that half-smile.

I touched my lips as I remembered my kiss on his freckled cheek.

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