Tell Me It’s Right (Sweetspire #1)

Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

GRACIE

Well, it’s finally happening. After a near twenty-three years of complete and total celibacy, I’m going on my first date. It’s not that I have zero experience, per se. Make outs, hangouts in dorm rooms, and weird gray area “talking stages” with guys aside—there’s never been anything official.

I pause with one foot on the basement stairs. Staying in this little hole in the ground has never sounded more appealing.

This is a mistake. Miles is going to realize it too about thirty seconds into our date. We’re going to lapse into awkward silence so thick that he actually falls asleep at the table, hitting his head on the way down, then we’ll have to call an ambulance, and everyone in the restaurant is going to see that I’m the first person in history to literally bore someone to death?—

The doorbell reverberates through the house.

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. I did not spend the last hour bent over the bathroom mirror to chicken out now. Smoothing my hands over the baby blue silk of my dress, I put one foot in front of the other, urging myself forward before I have the chance to talk myself out of it.

Miles beams as I swing the front door open, and I’m immediately glad I opted for the dress instead of the jeans and sweater I’d been considering. He’s in a pair of gray slacks and a navy button-up, and my knowledge of men’s footwear is lacking, but the leather looks shiny and expensive.

“You look beautiful,” he says, then pulls a single red rose out from behind his back. “For you.”

Like the cliché I am, I blush.

“We should get going if we want to make our reservation.”

I accept the arm he offers to lead me to the giant black SUV waiting by the curb. Goose bumps spread down my arms in the cool night air, and I pull my wrap tighter around myself. The fabric is measly and thin, but I figured we’d be inside for most of the night, and none of my jackets looked remotely good with this dress. It is a bit unseasonably cold for June, but at least it’s not winter.

He opens the passenger door and offers a hand to help me climb into the monstrous thing, which would have been a feat by itself, let alone with the six-inch heels. But I manage to wrestle myself inside and let out an audible sigh at the warmth of the car as he closes the door.

It’s cleaner than I would’ve expected, though the lemon air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror is a little overpowering. But it’s the thought that counts, right? If he went through the effort of cleaning for me, that must be a good sign.

He smiles as he slides into the driver’s seat, and I twist my fingers a little tighter together in my lap. Don’t be weird. Don’t be awkward. He already likes you at least a little. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked you out.

A radio station playing the Top 40s hums lowly in the background as he pulls away from the house. Is this the kind of music he listens to, or is he playing it for my sake?

“Can’t believe you’ve never been to Winters,” he says. “You’re gonna love it.”

I smile, my cheeks already starting to cramp. I should say something, maybe ask him a question, but all I can think is Do you go there often? and if those words come out of my mouth, I will have no choice but to throw myself out the door of this moving vehicle.

“So tell me about what you do at the shop for Brooks!”

This, at least, is an easy conversation. The drive to the restaurant is nearly half an hour, but it passes quickly as I tell him about the random assignments Liam has given me so far and my plans for his website and social media. It’s easier to talk to him with his focus on the road instead of me. The moment I meet his eyes, it’s like I forget how to form words.

“And what do you do again?” I ask, tugging at the hem of my dress. “Liam said something about construction?”

Miles snorts. “That’s a nice way of describing it. Makes it sound kind of impressive, right? Building shit.”

“But that’s not what you do…?”

He tilts his head to the side. “My dad owns a real estate development company. So I mainly help out on the office side of things for now. You know, learning the ropes, working my way up to managing a project on my own.”

“Ah.” I nod, though I can count on one hand the number of jobs I know less about than real estate development . “A very underappreciated occupation, if you ask me. Some might even say noble.”

“You know what? You’re right. Gonna make the guys at work start addressing me with a title.”

“My Lord?” I suggest. “His Grace? The Right Honorable?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “The Right Honorable?”

I shrug. “Sometimes I read historical romance.”

“Wait, wait. What’s the word for those? Bodice breakers?”

“Bodice rippers,” I mutter.

He snaps his fingers. “Right! Is it like that? Are they…racy?” He wiggles his eyebrows with the last word, and I immediately regret saying anything.

Maybe I will jump out of this car after all. For the second stupid time tonight, I blush.

He lets out a full-on cackle as he glances at me sideways. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

Thank God I went with the dress. The restaurant is fancy. Like, fancy , fancy. The kind that makes me feel like I’m playing dress-up in my mom’s high heels and I should just run along now since it’s already past my bedtime.

Miles walks through the door like he’s done it a hundred times before and gives a curt nod and his reservation to the host.

“Right away, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

He leads us through a sea of white tablecloths, flickering candles, and patrons dressed like they’re going to the Oscars. I tug on the hem of my dress and gulp. They can probably tell from a cursory glance that I fished this out of a clearance bin at a thrift shop. The plates we pass are the square white kind with more empty space than food on them, the presentation just so.

Which might be fine and dandy on a cooking competition show, but I can already tell this is going to be one of those menus without prices on it.

And I’m still going to leave hungry at the end.

Miles pulls out a chair as we reach our table and gives a slight bow of his head. “My Lady.”

I snort, and it sounds so inappropriate in this atmosphere. My hand flies up to cover my mouth as I take a seat.

“Red or white?” Miles asks as he sits across from me and plucks the drink menu from the center of the table. He nods like I responded, then turns to the approaching waiter. Before the poor man can get a word in, Miles says, “We’ll take a bottle of the Pinot Noir.”

The waiter’s eyes flick to me for a moment before he utters a quick “Right away, sir” and disappears into the shadows. The place is so dimly lit I can barely see past the surrounding tables.

I force my face not to react as I glance down at the menu. Fancy words that don’t register with my brain…and no prices.

Miles peers at me over the top of his menu. “The salmon here is good. And it’ll go well with the wine. Or the duck.”

Duck?

The waiter materializes, brandishing the bottle and going off about the notes and other wine-lover words that mean nothing to me. He pours a tiny amount for Miles to taste and waits for his approval before pouring the rest of our glasses.

“Do we know what we’d like to eat?” he asks.

“We’ll take one of the duck and one of the salmon,” says Miles as he slides the menu out from in front of me and hands them both off.

The waiter nods. “Excellent choices.”

“That way you can try both,” Miles explains.

Okay, so the sentiment is kind of sweet. I try not to bristle at him ordering for me—the drink and the food. Maybe girls like that on dates? Should I like that? Either way, I’m definitely not eating either.

“Oh, actually, I don’t eat meat!” I say with a smile and a shrug, hoping it comes off light. “I was thinking one of the pasta dishes?—”

“They’re known for their duck,” Miles cuts in. “Best I’ve ever had. Come on.” He winks. “One night off. They won’t mind. They’re already dead.”

I blink, momentarily stunned, and now the waiter is pointedly not looking at either of us like he’s as desperate to get away from this table as I am. Miles still has that goofy smile on his face as if that was a completely normal, nonpsychotic thing to say.

Maybe he just says the wrong thing when he’s nervous and he’s more anxious about this date than he’s letting on? That’s a stretch, even for I-always-give-people-the-benefit-of-the-doubt me. Or maybe he hasn’t been around many vegetarians and doesn’t realize there’s absolutely nothing funny about his joke.

“The—the pesto pasta is fine,” I sputter, and the waiter all but runs to the kitchen.

Miles shrugs, unperturbed, and holds up his glass. “To you, Gracie! Congrats on your new job. And welcome home.”

I force myself to brush it off as I clink my glass to his and take a sip. I pretty much never drink red wine, but it’s not nearly as bad as I’d been expecting.

But the word in his little speech that really trips me up is home .

Technically speaking, yes, I’m from here. My family lives here. Anyone who looks at me would describe what I’ve done as “moved back home.”

But it doesn’t feel like it. Returning feels more like a defeat than a homecoming.

I spin the wineglass around in my hands. Aren’t people on dates supposed to ask each other questions? I wait, but Miles says nothing.

“So, um.” I clear my throat. “You went to school with Asher?”

Miles bobs his head. “We met through the swim team freshman year.”

Asher and Miles are only a year older than I am, but I never really crossed paths with them growing up since they went to the private school across town. Liam was the only Brooks who dared to slum it at public school, and that was after getting expelled his sophomore year.

I wasn’t at the high school yet, but that was before Leo got his license, so he still rode with me and Mom. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on Liam’s face the first time Mom picked him up to drive him to school with us. It was so different than every other expression I’d seen him make. There was just…nothing behind his eyes.

No one ever told me the details of the fight that got him expelled, but the timing always made it seem like it had something to do with his mom dying.

God, why am I thinking about Liam right now?

I blink back to the table. If Miles noticed my attention drifting, he doesn’t show it. He’s far too preoccupied with refilling his wineglass. I watch him, searching for the things I’d originally thought were attractive about him. Attractive enough at least to agree to this date. But looking at him from across this table somehow feels vastly different than last night.

“Did you swim all through school?” I ask when he offers nothing else.

He bobs his head. “All four years of high school, then swam at Tufts on a scholarship.”

“What made you want to move back here after graduating?”

He shrugs and takes another gulp of wine. “Always planned on coming back. Family business and all. Dad said once I got my business degree, he’d let me take on a larger role.”

I pause, waiting to see if he’s going to ask me anything in return—something easy, like where I went to school, or asking me the same question about why I moved home after graduating—but he just stares at me.

Okay then. I chip away at my nail polish under the table. “Well, you were right. This place is really nice.”

He beams. “Just wait until you taste the food. Hey, you’ve barely touched your wine.”

I force a smile and take another sip. I was so nervous about tonight I haven’t had an appetite all day, and I’m enough of a lightweight as it is. The last thing I need is to drink this whole thing on an empty stomach.

Maybe the lull in conversation isn’t as awkward as I’m making it out to be. I’ve always felt the need to fill the silence with new people, but maybe he’s someone who’s comfortable not talking just for the sake of talking.

Granted, this is a first date where you’d supposedly want to get to know the other person.

Was it all in my head that he’d seemed more interested before? The party, the car… Maybe I’ve already disappointed him somehow and he’s counting down the seconds until it’s over and that’s why he’s making zero efforts at conversation now. Is it the dress? Did I say something wrong on the drive here? Is he more annoyed I didn’t go with his menu suggestion than I realized?

“So, do you still swim?” I offer.

“Oh, fuck no. Well, maybe a bit at a darty with a beer.” He winks.

“A…darty?” I repeat stupidly. Obviously I’ve heard the term before. I’m not that clueless. Trish and Marti were big fans in school, and they managed to convince me to tag along here and there. But I have this weird, nagging feeling in the back of my mind as I think about the party the other night. How he’d said it wasn’t his scene.

“You know.” He swirls a hand in a circle. “Day party. Didn’t you have those at…wait, where did you go to school?”

“Oregon!” I sit up a little straighter, then wince at how eager that sounded. “Just outside of Portland.”

“Ah.”

And…that’s all he says.

The waiter drifts toward us in my peripheral version, and I send up a little prayer of thanks to whoever is listening as he sets the food in front of us. I’m starving, and at least eating is better than sitting here with him staring at me.

I take a swig of my wine. It looks like it’s going to be a long night.