Page 17 of Only the Wicked

Quinn said this thing works fast.

I should’ve tested it.

Our server approaches. “Good evening. Welcome to On the Veranda.”

“Would you mind coming back? My date’s?—”

“Oh. Sure thing, sugar. Have you had a chance to look over our cocktails?”

“I’ll wait for my date. He may prefer wine.”

The green light flashes in my lap and my gaze darts to the restroom hallway.

Rhodes exits, gaze locked on me.

Fuck.

“Take your time,” she says, stepping away with half her focus on the order pad.

The device drops into my pocketbook and my thigh shifts over Rhode’s phone, so I’m basically sitting on it, just as Rhodes slides into the opposite bench.

My heart hammers against my ribs. One wrong move and everything unravels.

“Did you order?” he asks.

“No, I said I’d wait for you.”

I keep my breathing calm in spite of the adrenaline coursing through my veins like liquid fire.

He lifts the menu. “I should’ve told you what to order for me.” His brow crinkles as he takes in the menu.

I edge forward, placing one finger on the cocktail section as distraction while my other hand delivers his phone to his coat pocket.

“You want a cocktail?” he asks.

“I thought some of them looked interesting.” I scan the menu, hoping the cocktails are indeed interesting and not standard fare.

“Do you like sweet drinks?”

I crinkle my nose. “No. Can’t stand them.”

“Same,” he says.

“Wine’s fine,” I’m quick to say, as the custom cocktails listed all include simple syrup.

“Can you hand me my coat?”

Oh, shit.

“Don’t laugh, but I need my glasses. Or maybe I need light.” He scans the ceiling as if the lighting might be to blame for his inability to decipher the menu.

Relieved, I laugh, and feel in his pockets, first the pocket with the phone, before locating a glasses case in his other pocket.

I pass him his glasses and watch as he transforms from frat boy handsome to geeky sexy with black, boxy frames.

My college self sighs wistfully. With one set of glasses, he transformed into every crush I had from the ages of seventeen to twenty-one.

“Hazards of a life spent staring at screens,” he says as much to himself as to me.