Page 33 of The Ruse of Romancing

Dani

The next night, I wiped my hands down the front of my dress, trying desperately not to appear nervous as I waited for Allen.

I’d had two crazy productive days of writing.

Between my growing interest in Allen and my anger and frustration with Mason, I had enough emotions to write five best-selling romantasy series.

I still had a long way to go before the sequel to Of Curses and Pomegranates was complete, but I was no longer worried I wouldn’t be able to write it.

Just so long as I didn’t think about how the sequel needed to live up the hype of the first book, I could keep putting words on the page.

After my conversation with Spencer, I had almost left another sticky note for Mason, telling him what I thought of his vacation romance theory, but by the time I got home I had cooled off enough to see the note wasn’t necessary.

Mason had said that to Spencer in general and not specifically about me and Allen.

Also, why would I take anything my lady’s-man of a neighbor had to say about romance seriously?

Also, I’d just met Allen. Maybe this thing growing between us was destined to stay a vacation fling. Didn’t mean I was going to stop getting to know him and enjoying this experience.

A knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts and I hurried to answer.

I was wearing the green dress from Retro Rendezvous and, with my hair styled over one shoulder in soft curls, I felt as elegant as Doris Day heading out for a night on the town.

The look on Allen’s face when I opened the door was worth the effort. His expression was filled with appreciation, and I gave him a coy smile, knowing I looked good and fully prepared to use that fact to my advantage.

“Good evening,” he said, his voice warm. “I feel like I’m underdressed.”

He gestured at himself, drawing attention to his tan slacks, navy blue button down, and gray jacket.

“I think you look very nice, like you’re ready to show a lady a good time.

” I stepped outside, closing and locking the door behind me.

I shivered slightly, my bare arms not prepared for the cool summer air.

It was cool enough to need a jacket, but I hadn’t had anything that would go with the dress, and I wasn’t about to let some silly thing like a cool summer night on the Oregon coast get in the way of impressing this man.

Allen held my door as I climbed into his dark blue SUV, and I enjoyed the view as he walked over to his side of the car to climb in.

On the drive to the restaurant, he asked how my writing had gone, and I told him about the scenes I’d drafted today.

“I probably have about a third of the book written at this point, and I’m hoping to get a good chunk written tomorrow. How was your day?”

“Oh, you know, same old, same old,” Allen responded vaguely as he parked the car.

I waited until we were both out of the car and walking to the restaurant before continuing our conversation.

“No, I don’t know what ‘same old, same old’ means for you. You told me you’re a graphic designer, so what do you design?” I asked, wanting to know everything I possibly could about this man.

“I design a little bit of everything. The joy and challenge of being a freelance designer is that I can take on any project I want, but it also means I have to attract enough business to earn a livable wage,” he said as he held the door open for me.

The restaurant was a seafood place near the beach with views of the ocean.

It was nautical themed with tables that had been artfully aged to make them look vintage and worn.

On the walls were photos of the ocean intermixed with sailing paraphernalia.

It was cozy and quaint, though I hoped it served more than just seafood. I was not a seafood fan.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” I said as we were shown to our table, empathizing with Allen’s struggle to support himself with his creativity.

The waiter handed us both laminated menus and deposited a basket of breadsticks on the table, promising to be back shortly to take our drink orders.

“A pressure you understand,” Allen said, giving my hand a gentle squeeze where it rested on the table. The quick, compassionate movement sent sparks dancing down my spine and made me wish his hand had lingered.

“The joys of using our art to support ourselves,” I said, feeling a blush suffuse my cheeks at his attention.

Needing a distraction, I glanced down at the menu. Most of the food involved some form of seafood, though I was relieved to see a few chicken options.

“I’ve heard amazing things about their clam chowder,” Allen said, following my lead and reviewing his own menu.

I had to fight the urge to gag, but some of what I was thinking must have shown on my face.

“Not a clam chowder fan?”

I shook my head.

“That is a tragedy! I don’t know if you can visit Oregon if you’re not going to enjoy a bowl of clam chowder.”

I ducked my head behind my menu, not sure if I wanted to see his reaction to what I had to say next.

“It’s not just clam chowder,” I said slowly. “It’s all seafood, if that makes you feel better.”

The strangled noise Allen made had me looking up in concern, half expecting to find him choking on a breadstick. Instead, he was staring at me like I’d just declared the earth was flat.

“You don’t like seafood?” He asked slowly, each word a staccato beat contrasting with the steady flow of conversation of the diners around us. “I don’t think we can be friends.”

“That’s going to make dinner together really awkward, but I guess I can stop talking to you immediately, really lean into this new dynamic.” I quipped, trying to fight back a laugh at how truly appalled he sounded at my food preferences.

“I think it might be for the best,” he said, glancing around as if looking for a waiter. “I probably need to ask for separate tables as well.”

We both burst out laughing at the absurd suggestion.

“Well, now I feel bad. If I would have known, I would have suggested a different restaurant,” Allen said, setting down his menu.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, resting a hand on his. “Thankfully, I’m a big chicken fan.”

The rest of the meal passed quickly, our conversation easy and natural. My chicken fettucine proved delicious, and I even agreed to try a bite of Allen’s shrimp scampi, which wasn’t bad, though I definitely wouldn’t be ordering it for myself any time soon.

We finished our food, and Allen, mentioning he didn’t want the evening to end, suggested we visit an ice cream place a couple of blocks away and I happily agreed to extending our date.

As we stood to leave, I dropped my phone.

I bent to retrieve the device, the seams of my dress pulling tight along the side.

Not thinking anything of the pressure, I stretched to grab my phone from where it sat under the table.

The seams gave a tug and then suddenly released, a popping sound accompanying the change, and I froze.

My vintage, well-loved dress had shown its age, the seam along my right side popping. Based on the air flow I was feeling, I was guessing the hole was currently revealing several inches of skin that likely included a nice view of my very practical, slightly discolored bra.

Grabbing my phone, I quickly straightened, plastering my arm to my side to try to hide the damage. Maybe no one would notice.

“Everything okay?” Allen asked, his eyes wide. He had clearly noticed.

My face turned bright red, and I looked around, trying to find some way to cover up my wardrobe mishap. I had never wished for a jacket more than I did now, fashion be danged.

“Um, yes, but I don’t think I have room for ice cream after all.

” I gave a small, forced laugh, trying to distract from the fact that the whole restaurant was going to see more of me than I was comfortable with if we didn’t get to the car soon.

I’d worry about finding a way to save things with Allen later.

Or maybe I’d book a flight to Utah as soon as I got back to the duplex, run away, and pretend like this was not happening in front of the first man I’d even remotely been interested in in far too long.

Allen continued to watch me for a moment before giving a small shrug and placing a gentle hand on the small of my back to guide me from the restaurant. The gesture placed him on my right side, making it so he helped block my split seam, and I was grateful for his consideration.

I forced my face into a pleasant expression as we thanked the hostess.

Reaching the door, I realized we couldn’t both fit through, and I steeled myself to walk into the cool evening without a jacket and with my dress falling apart.

While I had wanted to show Allen more of myself tonight, I was thinking more along the lines of telling him some childhood stories, not giving him a peek at my underclothing.

Just as Allen dropped his arm and I moved to step outside, I felt the light pressure of Allen draping his jacket over my shoulders. Startled, I glanced over to see him giving me a knowing look.

“You’re holding your arm so close to your side, I figured you were cold or something,” he said with a wink.

I slipped my arms into the jacket, gratefully accepting its warmth in addition to his discretion. Allen’s incredible scent engulfed me, and I gratefully breathed it in as we walked back to the car, the smell both woodsy and sweet.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I exclaimed, burying my face in his jacket as we settled into his car.

“Why, because you weren’t properly prepared for the weather or because you don’t like seafood? Because I’ll have you know, neither of those are deal-breakers for me.”

Allen pulled the car onto the main road and began driving back toward my rental. I was disappointed that we wouldn’t be getting ice cream, but I didn’t see a way to keep the night going when my dress was literally falling apart at the seams.