Page 23 of One More Truth
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Troy pullsopen the door to the restaurant, and his warm gaze locks on me like I’m a grand prize he’s won. The love in his eyes sets off a flutter of butterfly wings in my stomach.
I’m wearing the gorgeous floral sundress Anne gave me when I bought Iris’s house. Troy has on pants and a button-up shirt. Anddamn. Troy in jeans and a T-shirt is good-looking, but that’s nothing compared to dressed-up Troy. He’s hotter than hot.
The way the young hostess is batting her eyelashes at him tells me I’m not the only one who thinks that. I’m not sure she even notices he’s holding my hand.
That’s fine with me. As long as she’s paying attention to him, it means she’s not seeing me. Or my scar. Or noting how much I resemble the woman in the newspaper—assuming she reads the one Cora’s article was in.
I duck my head. I have a little more makeup on than normal, but it’s not enough to hide the scar by my mouth.
“We have a reservation for two under Troy Carson,” he tells her.
“Yes, this way, please.” She grabs the menus and leads us to a table in the middle of the room, to a location that puts me on display. My muscles tense, and my hand tightens around Troy’s.
“Could we sit somewhere a little more private?” He nods to several empty tables near the exposed brick wall.
“Of course.” She takes us to a table for two tucked in the corner. Troy pulls a seat out for me that has my back facing the restaurant patrons, and the tension in my body lessens.
“Thank you.” I smile at him and sit, relieved he understood the problem without me having to voice it out loud.
He takes the seat opposite mine, and the hostess recites the specials. I don’t dare look at her, keeping my head tucked down.
She leaves, and Troy wraps his fingers around my hand resting on the table. My skin is no longer dry and calloused like it was when I was released from prison. Even my fingernails are in better shape. They’re longer now, prettier, with a light gloss to them.
Troy’s hands are warm and strong. They’re perfect for holding, for making me feel safe, for giving me orgasms. He strokes my hand with his thumb, setting off the delicious tingles that happen whenever he does that.
“Did this restaurant exist when you were a kid?” I turn my head to check out the place. The restaurant has a quaint charm to it that reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of outdoor courtyards in Italy and the Mediterranean.
“Yes and no. There was a restaurant here, but the owners sold it about fifteen years ago. Everything about it changed when the new owners took over. For the better. It wasn’t so trendy when I was growing up. It was more like a diner.”
Wow. I never would have guessed. “Have there been a lot of changes to the town since you were a kid?”
“It’s grown since then, but not enough to lose the small-town charm that has the tourists coming here. Some of the buildings on and near Main Street have seen updates over the years, but it’s pretty much the same.” His thumb continues to stroke my hand. I’m close to purring at his touch.
We gaze into each other’s eyes. The warmth of the chocolate-brown flakes in his eyes has me mesmerized. I could easily get lost in them for all eternity.
“Would you like anything to drink?” a woman asks us, startling me. I didn’t notice her approach our table. She’s in her early twenties, her black hair styled in sleek waves like a 1950s Hollywood starlet.
She smiles at Troy, all warmth and sparkling eyes.
The same warmth is then directed my way. Her gaze drops to the scar by my mouth. Her expression doesn’t change, but her smile now seems almost frozen in place. Her eyes lack any hint of recognition.
We pick up the menus and I hurriedly read the options. Rich and delicious aromas tease the air and remind me I’m hungry. Everything looks so good and smells amazing, making it harder to choose what to order.
We order wine and our food. She gathers our menus, her smile unchanging, and leaves.
Troy takes my hand again. His thumb strokes the side of my wrist, soothing away my unease from the waitress’s reaction to my scar.
It doesn’t mean anything.She’s not the first person to be distracted by it. She’s probably…she’s probably wondering why someone as hot as Troy is with someone scarred like me.
Or maybe she saw your photo in the newspaper.
“What was your childhood like living with your grandparents?” Troy asks, clearly oblivious to the waitress’s reaction…or maybe he’s trying to distract me from it.
I decide to lean into it. “The best. I swear Granny was a flower child in the sixties, and she kept that part of her alive after my grandfather died.”
“Were you close to them both?”
