Page 45 of Dahlia Made A List

Jasper sat to his left, with Minerva at the opposite end of the table. Dahlia and I sat halfway down the long-ass table, my brother on her other side. She shifted in her chair, managing to knock her elbow against my arm for the third time since we sat down.

“Wyatt, how’s The Royal restoration coming?”

I ripped my attention from Dahlia’s pink-tipped fingers fiddling with her salad fork to find Jasper’s gaze on me. “Good,” I answered. “Coming along. Got the new projector installed and running.”

Dahlia whirled in her chair, a smile pushing some of the nervousness from her expression. “You did?”

I nodded.

“We should test it out and watch Star Wars.”

I’d thought of that, but before I could say as much, J.T. spoke.

“What’s the point of restoring The Royal? If it made a profit, Sherman wouldn’t have let it slide.” J.T. flicked his hand over his plate of smoked salmon filets. “Waste of a nice chunk of land, now that I think about it. What is it, ten, fifteen acres?”

My fingers curled around the butter knife in my hand. I placed the warm potato roll back on its special little plate and set the knife down, too, careful to not let it clatter against the fancy china.

My grandmother spoke from the other end of the table, the crystal wine goblet in her hand glinting beneath the shine of the chandelier overhead. “I like the idea of The Royal back up and running again as a theater. I think it would be more popular these days, too, after everything people have been through the last couple of years.”

My uncle ignored her, his sharp eyes on me. “If the place did turn a profit, would you even know what to do, Wyatt?”

I swallowed down a response. Years of family dinners had long ago taught me not to respond. Any challenge to his way of thinking spurred an argument and I’d long grown tired of pointless arguments.

“He can always hire someone,” my mother added helpfully, no more confident of my capabilities than my great-uncle.

“How’re the Renegades doing this year, Grandfather?” Millsy interjected, her voice overloud with fake cheerfulness.

But her gambit failed. Great Uncle J.T. was on a tear, his focus on me and my grandfather’s drive-in. “The more I think on it, Wyatt, the more I think you need to let that project go. Jasper can see about razing the grounds and put out some feelers, see what sort of investors we might interest in the land.”

I unclenched my jaw to answer. “No.”

But he ignored me. “Jasper, set something up with the Erwin Group—”

Minerva interrupted him. “Mighty presumptuous of you, J.T. The drive-in is still my property, after all.”

“A property you’re letting rot away, serving no purpose, providing no gain for the family.”

My fingers curled into a fist, my teeth grinding with the need to interrupt him and end his dictatorial attempts to wrest control. His dismissal of my interests, my contribution to the family. Then warm, slender fingers curled around my wrist and Dahlia pulled my hand into her lap. She smoothed her fingertips over the back of my hand, siphoning off the frustrated anger threatening to choke me with her delicate fingers.

“I think the drive-in is fabulous,” she declared with sweet sincerity. “Why,” she continued her voice brimming with the cheerful authenticity missing from Millsy’s earlier attempt, “the little toll buildings at the entrance are so cute and the concession is coming together, too. And the movie wall is just amazing! I really can’t wait to watch something on such a humongous screen.”

The quiet that fell over the room would have been stifling if I didn’t feel like laughing. “Something like Star Wars.”

She nodded, her colorful curls bouncing. “Yes!”

Beneath the table, she squeezed my hand. Her enthusiasm cut through the annoyance and loosened the last of the tension tightening my chest. “I can probably make that happen.”

She grinned. “You did promise to help me with my list.”

I’d done no such thing. No promise to her, at least. I’d agreed to teach her to drive and somehow that had snowballed into our current arrangement of shared meals, car shopping and movie watching. And I had no hope in hell of defining whatever the fuck our current arrangement was.

“How is your list coming along, Dahlia?”

“Oh, Ms. Minerva, it is coming alongperfectly. Wyatt took me to the cruise-in last night and we saw my new car. It’s gorgeous, a cruck I named Chuck. And I may have found my signature dish Friday—”

She cut herself off, her face flushing, and dipped her chin to take a quick sip of her water.

Friday night. The night of our kiss. The night she’d crawled in my lap and I’d fought the need to keep her there.

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