Page 57 of Miss Understood

As I place my hand on her lower back and lead her out the door, I wonder if she feels it. The electricity is pulsing, and I can barely contain the static.

As the car pulls up to Marino’s, Luce turns to me with bright eyes.

“I love this place,” she says with a wide smile that could melt an iceberg. And it does, somewhere in my chest.

“I know,” I whisper in her ear. She thinks I don’t listen, but I hear every word she says.

As I guide her out of the car, I fight a nervous feeling prickling inside me. It’s not like I haven’t been on plenty of dates, but I’ve never dated a woman like Luce. Bold, opinionated, not scared to tell me exactly what’s on her mind.

Everything that used to annoy me about her now threatens to tear me to pieces.

As I walk into the restaurant with her on my arm—a woman who actively avoided me for two years and is now legally mine—my confidence is flailing. All I can do is hold her close and hope I don’t say something to mess this all up.

We take our seats and order wine first. I choose one of her favorites, surprising myself when I know what her favorites are. It’s not like I purposely memorize these things, but over the past few weeks, I’ve subconsciously become aware of it all. What she likes, what she doesn’t. How she takes her coffee and her tea. The order in which she gets ready: makeup, hair, then clothes. I’ve become acutely aware of everything.

And right now, it’s the notable distance in her eyes. Luce is gazing off as she swirls her red wine.

“Something on your mind?” I ask.

“Hmm?” Her focus snaps back to me. “Sorry. I just—it’s nothing.”

I reach across the table and cover her hand, stopping the swirl of liquid. Comforting her feels weird, but also right.

“What’s wrong?” I ask her.

“Nothing’s wrong,” she says, but she pulls her hand away. “We shouldn’t be talking about work on this…” Her hand rolls in the air.

“Date?” I finish her sentence, and she nods. My stomach rolls a little at the fact that she couldn’t say it. “So it’s work related?”

I can’t help myself. Now that I know she’s holding something back, I want to pull it out of her. Especially with the nervous energy rolling off her right now. How did I not notice when she walked out of the bedroom? Apparently, I was so caught up in that dress.

“Troy called,” she says finally, an anxious edge to her tone.

Pounding starts in my head. “Troy Reinhart?”

Luce nods, and I’m uneasy. She’s nervous, tugging at the corner of her bottom lip with her teeth, and her eyes dart away.

“What did he want?” I say flatly.

“He was reaching out about an opportunity,” Luce says, finally looking me in the eyes. “His firm is looking to bring on another senior attorney, and he thought of me.”

“I’m sure he did,” I scoff.

Luce’s jaw clenches.

“Sorry,” I try, but it’s already been said. “What did you tell him?”

“That I’d think about it.”

My head swims. I had no idea she was thinking of leaving the firm. A few months ago, I might have been thrilled, but right now I can’t help but get a sinking feeling she’s looking for an escape.

“Are you unhappy?”

“No.”

“Then what’s there to think about?”

Her hands smooth the tablecloth, and I can sense she’s trying to hold something together inside. This is it, the moment her infamous walls shoot up and shove me to the other side.

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