Page 18 of Peaches

“No,” she says, turning to see the look on her mother’s face. “Let’s just go, and I can make up something when I see her next.” She turns to walk toward the café’s door without waiting for my response, and I hurry to follow behind her.

* * *

Olivia insistedshe didn’t want to go home and change, which ignited my appreciation for the coat she wore to work this morning as we flew down a dark back road. By all accounts, the temperatures haven’t been as cold this year as they normally are, but the cool bite that hangs in the air is much harsher when you fly through it at sixty miles an hour.

Reminiscent of the last time she was on my bike, Olivia’s arms are wrapped tight around my middle, cheek flush against the center of my back. Her body shakes with high-pitched, near manic giggles as I show off a little on a few empty straightaways, zigzagging back and forth across the road. It’s hard not to beam with pride knowing that, even though she’s not used to riding on a motorcycle, she somehow still trusts me enough to let herself enjoy it.

We make it to Monarch Saloon in just under thirty minutes, and even from the parking lot, it’s impossible not to feel nervous about the low romantic lighting from the exposed bulbs fixed around the building. I’ve only been here once—to pick up a stranded Colt after the girl he’d brought left him high and dry when she’d seen a text fromanothergirl pop up on his phone—but I remember deciding right then, if I ever got the chance, this is the kind of place I wanted to take a girl to.

Olivia and I are both aware of what this is: a date. That was the whole point of what I offered her, isn’t it? Still, the way my stomach tips uncomfortably as I rise from my bike is as unfamiliar as it is glaring.

“Oh.” Olivia lets out a soft sigh behind me. I turn to find her scanning the property beneath the simple black helmet I brought for her to wear, eyes tracing the decades-old oak trees billowing over and forming a natural canopy over the property, small white lights wrapped around their branches. “This is . . .” Her eyes find mine. “Wow.”

My shoulders relax as I reach a hand out to help her off the bike. She tugs off the helmet, strawberry-gold strands of hair falling down her back, and I nearly shudder at the sight. I reach to pull mine off too, replacing it with my cowboy hat. “I hope this is okay,” I say, though from the way her eyes widen as she continues to take in our surroundings, I have a feeling she’s pleased.

“More than okay,” she confirms. “I had no idea anything like this existed around here.”

The corners of my mouth tug. “Come on.” I offer my hand again, and this time she eyes it for a beat. She takes a long, quiet breath and then slips her warm hand into mine, her skin soft as hell. I’ve never held a woman’s hand before—or, at least, I haven’t been the one to initiate it—and I pray to god I don’t go clammy with the nerves rioting inside of me. I lead her toward the wide wooden door painted a deep, dark blue and reach out to pull it open for her.

“After you.”

Her eyes, speckled in green and gold, burn in the low light above us. “Such a gentleman,” she teases.

A burst of heated air engulfs us as we enter the restaurant, smells of roasted meat and garlic lighting me up with anticipation. With everything going on at home, Mom’s been too busy with the boys to do a whole lot of cooking. It’s been a while since I’ve filled myself with good food.

Two women wearing matching black dresses wait behind a sleek host stand, and I dip my head in greeting as we approach them. “For two, please.”

The shorter one on the left with long blonde hair smiles wide. “What’s the name of your reservation?”

My heart sinks.Fuck. “Uh . . . I don’t have one.”

I don’t miss how her mouth flattens. Her eyes bounce from me to Olivia before she checks her computer. “Just give me one moment, okay?”

What arookie. Of course this is the kind of place you’d need a reservation for, and my dumb ass just assumed we could waltz in here, no problem. “Please,” I nearly beg, the fingers not entwined with Olivia’s drumming against my thigh. “We’ll take any table you have.”

The hostess’s eyes rise to meet mine. “One moment, please.”

I sigh, nodding. Olivia squeezes my hand, gently tugging me away from the stand. “Hey,” she says calmly. “It’s not a big deal.”

Irritation slices through me, eager to be let out. “They better find us a fucking table?—”

“Rhett.” Her voice pierces through the rising tide of anger. “No matter what, it’s okay. This is a beautiful gesture.”

I search her expression for any hint of disappointment, knowing it’ll fuel bad behavior on my part, but there’s none. She still looks happy, like even if we don’t actually make it to a table, it wouldn’t sour her experience.

“Sir?” the hostess calls from behind me, and I whip my head around. “A spot just opened up. You can follow me right this way.”

I exhale audibly and tip my head back to look at the ceiling, hearing Olivia chuckle behind me. When I look back at her, she’s beaming, radiating joy, and I could literally kiss one of the hostess’s spiky pointy-toe heels for making this happen. She leads us to a small table for two in the middle of the restaurant—the single, empty table surrounded by others with seated guests. “Here you are.” She presses her hand on the ivory linen that covers the table’s surface before giving us room to take our seats.

I make sure to pull Olivia’s seat out for her—I’ve been reminding myself to do that on an incessant loop all night, too terrified of forgetting—before seating myself in the chair across from her. The hostess lays two menus down in front of us. “Have you ever been to the Monarch Saloon?”

Olivia shakes her head, still smiling wide like she can’t believe we’re actually doing this. “No. It’sbeautifulin here.”

The hostess lets out a small, polite laugh. “Yes, it might be called a ‘saloon,’ but Monarch is absolutely a fine-dining establishment. Our food is meant to be enjoyed as an experience, and the ambience strives to support that. Please enjoy your evening—your server will be right with you.”

I don’t miss the small wink she gives me as she turns to walk away, a knowing smile on her face. I’m not sure what strings she pulled in those few minutes to get us this table, but something tells me shedefinitelypulled them.

Olivia’s eyes skim over the menu, her lips twisting in thought as she considers. Even after hours spent on her feet serving others, hair swept back behind her ears and wearing jeans in a place where most people are head-to-toe in designer clothing, she looks like the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.

---