Willow
IT'S A SHORT DRIVE TO THE RESTAURANT, WHICH TURNS OUT TO BE A cozy little hideaway tucked into the hills. The clapboard building is nestled beneath leaning pines and strings of fairy lights illuminating an outdoor patio. A stacked stone chimney puffs smoke into the hazy night sky. Before I can open the door of the truck, Dominik is already there, opening it for me. Taking my hand again to help me out. I've never had a guy do that for me. Turns out, I don't hate it.
He keeps giving me sidelong glances as we walk across the parking lot. He truly can't seem to keep his eyes off me, and it sends a flurry of self-conscious pleasure through me. "You're looking at me like I'm gonna bite you," he says.
"Aren't you?"
It's a joke. Supposed to be a joke. Only, his pupils dilate for the briefest second, like he's thinking about doing just that, and my heart seems to start beating harder.
"If you ask nicely," he says.
Butterflies take flight in my stomach. I try to swallow past the sudden dryness in my throat as he holds the door to the restaurant open for me.
The moment we step inside, the scent of baked goods, savory meat, and spices wraps around me, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble. His eyes flick down. "Knew you were hungry."
He heard that? So much for any sexy vibe I could hope to give off. "Maybe a little," I confess sheepishly. I follow him to a booth and slide into the seat, the worn leather cushions sinking beneath my weight. He settles in opposite me, one arm resting on the seatback. He takes up so much space so carelessly, like the world is his to conquer. And there I am across from him, arms wrapped around myself.
Always unconsciously trying to make myself smaller, trying to hide. I put my arms at my side. Something about Dominik's confidence inspires me to not shrink inside myself like usual. "So," he says. "What brings you to Redwood Grove?"
I open my mouth to answer, then close it. I don't want to talk about Dad tonight. So much of my life has revolved around being the dutiful daughter. I don't want to center my father in this moment too. I want this encounter to myself. Just me and the mysterious stranger, getting to know each other.
Not that this is a date or anything. I mean, yes, I'm sitting opposite a man—the most attractive one I've ever seen in real life, but that's neither here nor there—and we are at a restaurant—a cozy, dimly lit one, which also has nothing to do with anything date-related—and we're gazing intently at one another as we talk. On the surface, I could see how it looks like a date. But thinking of it in those terms has me getting nervous. It's been a long time since I've been on a first date. I haven't done anything romantic or sexual with another guy since Ben, and that was over a year ago. I'm not exactly at my best right now. Maybe Dominik isn't a serial killer, but someone like him can't seriously be interested in someone with my kind of vibe. The vibe of a girl who spends Saturday nights in a wearable blanket, eating ice cream while reading dragon-shifter erotica. At any moment this might turn. He's going to ask me to join his harem, or inquire about the health of my kidneys so he can cut them out of me to be sold on the black market — "Willow."
My eyes snap up to his. The question tumbles out of me. "What's the deal here? Are you trafficking in stolen organs?"
A curious look. "Would you have agreed to dinner with an organ trafficker?"
"Depends on the restaurant. Eighteen course sushi dinner, sure, I might give you a kidney for that one. Thrown in dessert and you can have my gallbladder too."
"Not interested in stealing your organs."
"If you want me to join your cult, thank you, but no thank you.
You wouldn't want me anyway. I've been told I have difficulty taking instructions."
His body shifts. "I don't know. You seem like a good girl to me."
For some reason, when he says it, those innocent words sound absolutely filthy. It's the voice, I think. There's a husky edge to it that makes everything sound sexier than it has any right to be. I bite my lip. His gaze dips to my mouth. Before either of us can break the silence, the waitress comes over.
She's blonde and pretty, and she has eyes only for Dominik. I can't blame her. "Twice in one month?" she says to him. "This is a treat." She smiles, tucking a stray blonde curl behind her ear, her long red nails standing out in vivid relief against her hair. "What can I get you, babe?"
Babe? An irrational surge of annoyance rushes beneath my skin. Of course Dominik has women eating out of the palm of his hand. He's probably left a trail of broken hearts through this town.
But if this girl is one of them, she's lucky, I have to admit. I force my gaze back to the menu. "Hey Katie," he says. "I'll have that new IPA on tap. Burger and fries too."
His voice is polite but flat. He doesn't glance at her, not even once. His eyes stay on me as if I'm the only thing in the room worth looking at.
Her smile falters before she turns to me. "And for you?" I try to ignore the way she looks me up and down. Purses her lips.
I know I'm not much to look at right now, but she doesn't have to be so judgy about it. Some of us didn't have time today to curl our hair and put on liquid eyeliner this morning. Some of us have spent the last eight hours fueled solely by regret and high fructose corn syrup, Katie. Scanning the menu, I do a quick calculation of prices against the dwindling balance in my checking account. Things do not look good. "Can I have a water, please? And... um, tomato soup. The cup, not the bowl."
"Make that two burgers and fries," Dominik says to Katie. He looks at me. "I brought you here to eat something, remember?" I pause. He did say he was buying, earlier. I can only hope he meant it. "I'll have that IPA too," I say. After the ordeal that was getting to Redwood Grove, not to mention the growing worry over Dad this past week, I feel like I deserve a drink. "Coming up." She walks away. Not before tossing one more flirtatious smile to Dominik, though. His eyes flick to her hands. The long red nails. I swear he shudders before wrenching his gaze away. I start fiddling with a salt packet, careful not to look at him. I already think I know the answer, but I want to see his reaction to my question. "Is that your girlfriend?" "Nope."
"Seems as though she'd like to be."
"It's not a relationship she's looking for. Not with—" His eyes shift away briefly. "Not with someone like me."