Page 42 of Love Me Stalk Me
Except... it's not.
I grimace.
It's Evan.
Meet me for dinner? I have something special to talk to you about.
I furrow my brow, already suspicious. My thumb hovers over the screen as I read the message twice.
Evan and I do not do spontaneous dinner plans. He usually spends weeks planning everything out way in advance, his calendar a sacred tome that cannot be violated without serious consequences.
The back of my neck prickles with wariness. Then I look back at Callahan, who's waiting patiently for my response, his expression neutral but attentive. I clear my throat. "Sorry. Looks like I've got a last-minute meeting I have to catch."
For a split second, I swear I see a flash of disappointment in his eyes—a brief crack in his composed exterior revealing he actually wanted me to say yes.
But then it's gone. His expression smooths out into his usual calm, unreadable mask.
He nods once. "Understood."
I try not to feel bad about it, not to be bothered that he immediately shut down whatever that moment was. But the small pang of regret in my chest suggests otherwise.
He glances at my still-full water bottle, the one from this morning's meeting. "Drink that. And make sure you eat dinner."
I pause, momentarily thrown. Normally, when someone threatens my coffee habit, I tell them where they can go. But, instead, I smile, and words of agreement quite literally fall out of my mouth. "Yeah. I will."
And with that, I turn and head toward the exit, trying very hard not to think about how much of me wishes I were staying.
Evan's car is already waiting outside when I step out of the store.
Which, honestly, is insane.
Owning a car in New York is one thing. Owninga car when you live in the heart of the city and are paying more for a parking spot than most people pay for rent? Completely deranged behavior. But there it sits, a black BMW, gleaming under the streetlights.
But Evan is Evan, so of course he has a car.
I slide into the passenger seat and am barely buckled in before he pulls away from the curb.
"Where are we going?" I ask, glancing over at him. His profile is sharp against the city lights, his attention focused on the road ahead.
He shrugs, eyes not leaving the road. "Thought I'd take you to dinner."
I pause, thrown by the casualness of his statement. It doesn’t match his usual carefully planned approach to everything. "Like... just us?"
"Yeah. Just us. Unless your perfume counts as a third passenger. It’s practically fogging up the windows."
I don’t respond. Just press my lips together and turn toward the window, suddenly aware of the scent clinging to my skin. The one I’d spritzed on twice before leaving, stupidly wanting to feel pretty.
My eyebrows lift despite myself, suspicion creeping through me.
Because Evan does not do spontaneous dinner dates. Evan does networking dinners, business meetings over overpriced steaks, brunches with people who are somehow both named Chad. His social calendar is a carefully orchestrated dance of connections and impressions.
But this? Just us?
It's enough to make me wonder if maybe I've been the problem all along. Maybe he is being sweet, and I just haven't been noticing. Maybe I'm the one who's been too checked out. I need to stop overanalyzing and just... appreciate the moment. Let him be thoughtful. The city lights blur past the window as we drive, casting patterns of light and shadow across the car's interior.
Then we pull up to the restaurant. And I immediately know I should have trusted my instincts. The place is too clean, too aesthetic. There's a massive living wall covered in greenery, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a literal juice bar at the front. The sign glows with a minimalist font that screams "we charge $20 for a smoothie."
It's a health food place.
