Page 23 of How Freaking Romantic

I’m going to eat food with Nathan Asher. Not dinner, I remind myself. I refuse to call it dinner; dinner is too much like a date , and this is most definitely not a date . This is food after a business appointment.

That’s the mantra I repeat in my mind as we walk down Forty-Fourth Street, our steps in time with each other.

I’m in four-inch heels, but I still wish they were higher, then I could pretend we were on an even playing field.

Of course, I could be wearing six-inch platforms and he would still tower over me.

It’s like nature’s ensured he’ll always have the literal upper hand.

“This okay?”

Nathan’s deep voice snaps me from my train of thought, and I look up to see that he’s stopped in front of a diner.

It’s one of those twenty-four-hour places that looks like it’s been at this corner in Midtown since the fifties and hasn’t changed since opening day.

Through the window I can see fluorescent lighting, sterile Formica tables, and cracked pleather booths.

It’s devoid of any ambiance whatsoever. In other words, perfect.

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging one shoulder as if I don’t care one way or the other.

He holds the door open and then follows me inside, past the long counter to a booth near the windows.

I slide in one side and take off my coat as he slides in the other, bending his tall frame to fit.

His white shirt stretches across his chest to accommodate the movement, and I’m suddenly hit by the memory of how that body so easily enveloped me that night against my building.

I cross my legs and clear my throat, praying the red light from the neon OPEN sign above hides the flush in my cheeks.

But now my body is too still, so I grab one of the menus at the end of the table and look down the long list of food.

Or at least I pretend to look. I’m too distracted to read anything.

I finally give up when the waitress appears, and after Nathan orders a cheeseburger, I just say, “Make that two.”

She nods and Nathan thanks her, eliciting a coy smile from her stern face. At this moment, I can see why he’s good at his job, why people are so eager to hire him. When his eyes are on you, it feels like you’re the center of the world.

And when she leaves, he turns them to me.

“So,” he says.

“So.”

“You think I’m doing an incredible job?”

I roll my eyes. “Listen, I was just—”

He smiles. “No, I appreciate the endorsement.”

Is that what I had done? I hadn’t even realized it as it was happening, I had just jumped into action, the same way I always did when I felt like someone I cared about needed support.

Someone I cared about …

Ohmygod.

“It wasn’t an endorsement . I just… approve of the job you’re doing on a professional level.”

“I think that’s the definition of an endorsement, Bea.”

I let out a long breath, sending a few curls bouncing away from my face. “Whatever.”

He chuckles to himself, the sound so low it barely registers except for the vibration it sends through the air and into my bones.

Keep it light , I remind myself. You only have to fill thirty minutes and this will be done.

“Why are you a lawyer?” I ask, and almost wince.

Jesus. Way to jump straight in there .

A wry smile tugs at his lips. “Well, my mom was a paralegal when I was a kid. She always brought her casework home, and I would help her with research and organizing files. It was probably more to keep me busy when I was younger, but in high school she got me a job at her firm. It was mostly personal injury, and I was just answering the phone, but that was enough to sell me on it. I decided on family law after I started interning with Safe Harbor.”

I nod, slotting the bits of information into my brain for future reference. “What does your dad do?”

“He’s a chemistry teacher at my old high school.”

“And where’s that?”

The waitress walks by and deposits two waters without a word. I grip the cold glass in my hands as Nathan offers her a nod and takes a sip of his before answering.

“Great Barrington. Western Massachusetts.”

My eyes widen, a rare giddiness flaring in my chest. “Do you know Dorinda?”

“Who?”

“From Real Housewives ! Dorinda!”

His expression is blank.

“You know, The Real Housewives of New York City ,” I say, motioning in the air between us like it helps illustrate my point. “She’s from Great Barrington! Or maybe she just owns a house there? Anyway, there was this one episode where all the housewives went up there for the weekend, and…”

My voice fades as his face contorts with confusion.

My shoulders slump, defeated. “Never mind.”

“Okay,” he replies, taking another sip of his water. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Did you grow up in New York?”

Shit . I hadn’t considered how he might turn the personal questions around on me. I try to mask my sudden apprehension as I casually shrug one shoulder. “No. I was born in Connecticut but I moved around a lot growing up.”

“And why’s that?”

I pretend something in the corner of the room catches my eye.

I study the empty space as I work to somehow fortify that part of me that suddenly feels dangerously exposed.

The chink in my armor. “After every relationship, my mom wanted to move. So obviously, given five divorces and just… innumerable breakups, we moved a lot. There was Minneapolis, Atlanta, Dallas, Chicago, and then we moved to Pittsburgh my senior year of high school. I moved to New York for college and I haven’t left. ”

I shrug, as if that punctuates my point, and hope that he’ll come up with some inane question or provocative comment to fill the silence, but he doesn’t.

He just stares at me, his expression unreadable.

I know he can fake a smile; I’ve seen him do it.

The small talk, the pleasantries. And God, I want to see that skill now, if only to provide me with some cover.

But instead, he just gives me that steady eye contact, his eyes slowly narrowing, and then: “Like the countess.”

I blink. “What?”

“From Real Housewives . She moved to New York from Connecticut, too, right?” He looks genuinely interested, even as that corner of his mouth begins to tick up again.

I smile. “I didn’t marry royalty, though.”

“Well, there’s still time,” he says, and brings his water to his mouth, hiding his grin behind the rim of the glass. Still, I can make out the dimple there in his cheek, so beautiful that for a split second I think I could get addicted to making it appear.

It hits me then: I like him. And I hate that I like him.

I hate that this person who is ruining the lives of people I love is someone that I like, someone I could’ve fallen for.

And if it wasn’t for Josh and Jillian’s divorce, maybe I would have.

Maybe he would have spoken to me at that bar event and I wouldn’t know enough to hate him.

But I have to. And I need to keep reminding myself of that before I get in too deep.

Too late , a voice whispers in my head.

I ignore it.

Our food arrives a few minutes later. The waitress doesn’t look at me as she puts my plate down; her attention is on Nathan.

“Do you need anything else?” she asks him.

He shakes his head and thanks her as I shove a fry into my mouth.

Conversation blessedly moves on to other topics then—school and work and favorite restaurants and least-favorite books—and for a while I forget to try to quantify whatever it is that we’re doing here.

It’s comfortable, and I don’t even remember to check the clock as he presses me about my future plans, and I dig further about Marcie and his work with Safe Harbor.

In fact, I don’t even know what time it is when the waitress reappears, taking our empty plates away.

Nathan asks her for the check and then turns back to me, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

I want to kiss him again .

The thought lands squarely in the center of my brain. It’s like a splash of cold water on the growing warmth in my chest. A reminder that I shouldn’t be here right now. And I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying that look on his face as much as I am.

I work to maintain my blank expression, to disguise the fact that the thin thread keeping my composure together is fraying. And I absolutely, positively can’t let it snap. So I do the only thing I can think of: try to make him feel as off-kilter as I do.

“Why did you invite me tonight?” I ask.

“Because you wanted to meet Marcie.”

“But why introduce me to Marcie?”

His gaze skims across my face. I know he can feel the challenge; it’s laced in my tone.

“It’s simple. I know her and you wanted to meet her.”

Simple. The word lands heavy in my brain, along with the last time he said it to me. Not easy, just simple.

“But why do you care?”

He was about to take the last sip of his water, but the glass hovers near his lips as he looks at me. “Excuse me?”

“I just mean…” My voice stalls and I try to pinpoint the exact words I want to say. “You don’t have to care. You don’t even have to be here right now. I’m a pain in the ass and your job would probably be a lot easier by not dealing with me, so why bother?”

“You’re not a pain in the ass, Bea.”

I snort out a laugh, but I can still feel my cheeks warm.

“What?”

“Come on. I know I’m a lot.”

His brow furrows as if he has no idea what I’m talking about. “What does that mean?”

“I just…” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “I’m too much. I feel too much.”

“It’s better than not feeling anything at all,” he says. His voice is deep and gravelly.

“Except people don’t see it that way. They see that I’m too angry and too opinionated. I’m abrasive and let my emotions get the better of me, and that’s a lot for people to deal with, so—”

“Who told you that?”

I sigh, working to make my tone light, like I’m joking. Like this isn’t the most honest I’ve been with anyone in my entire life. “Everyone has told me that.”