Page 40 of Don't Speak
“Please be careful with this Dean guy,” she tells me. “I can tell you are different since being with him, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m being careful. I promise if anything changes, you’ll be the first to know.”
We sit for a bit and chat a little longer before I pack all my things up and hug her goodbye.
“Let’s do this again soon, please. I really needed that,” I confess.
“Consider it done.”
I head out, excited to see Dean this morning. At that thought, I send him a text message.
Me: Good morning. I am on my way home. Can’t wait to see you.
Dean: Good morning, beautiful. Be careful. I’ll see you when you get here.
I put my car in reverse and back out of Amelia’s driveway, heading toward what I hope will be my future. Dean is slowly chipping away at this wall. I don’t know how he’s doing it. I can’t explain this pull I have to him. I don’t know why I have let my guard down so much around him. All I know is that I am so fucked if he turns out to be too good to be true.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
When I got home this morning, breakfast was already made and waiting for me at the table. I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I silently thanked the universe for giving me a shred of happiness. After everything I’ve been through, I feel like I deserve it.
After breakfast, we cleaned up our mess and relaxed for a bit on the couch. I read one of my books while Dean watched TV, Simba lying on top of my stomach as I lay in Dean’s lap. It was at that moment that Dean informed me that he wanted to take me on a proper date. The Bunker is opening soon, having been closed this entire time due to Ben’s death, so before our lives become busy again, this is what he wanted to do.
After getting ready, he informed me that he wanted to take me out for dinner and a movie, which is how we find ourselves at Meat & Greet, the local steakhouse.
“What can I get for you to drink tonight?” the waitress asks.
“We’ll have a bottle of cabernet, please,” Dean answers, folding up the drink menu and handing it to her.
“You got it,” she says before leaving the table.
Dean turns his attention to me.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he tells me, and a blush creeps up my neck. I don’t have many options to choose from for ‘going out’ clothes, so I chose the only black dress I have in my closet. I paired it with some black heels, earrings, and a few bracelets, and I curled my hair before doing my makeup. I have to admit, I do think I’m beautiful tonight. At that thought, I wonder who I am right now. That little voice in my head has been quiet lately, and I can’t remember the last time I felt good about myself. Dean looks handsome as ever, having gotten equally as dressed up as I did tonight. He is currently sporting a white Calvin Klein dress shirt with black slacks and black dress shoes. He’s wearing a silver watch on his left wrist and a black leather bracelet on the right. A silver chain also sits on his neck. He is really easy on the eyes.
“Thank you,” I respond with a smile. “You're not too shabby yourself. You clean up nice.” I blush before changing the subject. “So, Dean, tell me something about you that I don’t know.”
“I hate to say that I’m not very interesting, little lioness.”
“Try me.”
“Well, my favorite colors are red and black, my middle name is Christopher, I have a love for bees, and I can seriously chow down on some cheese balls. Those severely processed cheese puffs are hard to resist.”
I giggle, a slight snort escaping me before I cover my mouth and nose with my hand, embarrassed by the sound that just left me.
Dean smiles, and as if he can read my mind, he says, “Don’t be embarrassed. I thought it was cute.”
I stare at him, lost in his eyes, when the waitress returns with our wine. My heart constricts again under his gaze, and I blush. She pours each of us a glass and sets the bottle down. She takes our order, and I order the filet mignon, medium rare, with a side of mashed potatoes and asparagus. Dean orders a center-cut filet, medium-rare, with mashed potatoes and mixed veggies, and the waitress leaves to put the order in.
“Oh, good. You’re not one of those cardboard eaters,” I joke.
“Cardboard eaters?” he questions.
“Yeah, you know, someone who eats their steak any more cooked than medium rare. I'll be generous and say medium, but anything more than that is psychopathic.”
“I can’t argue with that logic.” He smiles. “So tell me a few things about you. Things most people wouldn’t know.”
I follow what he did when I asked.
