What the Moon Made

DINNER FOR TWO

At 5:47, I realize I’m going to be late.

“Shit.”

I hit save on the article and stare at the clock in the corner of my computer like it has personally betrayed me.

It hasn’t.

This is entirely my fault.

I was supposed to leave fifteen minutes ago.

Actually, I was supposed to finish the article an hour ago, send it to my editor, go home, change, fix my hair, and meet Kyle at the restaurant by six.

Instead, I spent forty minutes rewriting the introduction because apparently there is no professional way to describe Theodore De Luca without making him sound either incredibly boring or like the male lead in a romance novel.

Neither is ideal.

My phone says 5:48.

“Shit.”

I grab my bag, shove my notebook inside, and practically sprint toward the elevator.

Jamie looks up from his desk.

“Hot date?”

“Dinner.”

“With?”

The elevator doors open.

“None of your business.”

I step inside.

His mouth drops open.

“Willa!”

I smile sweetly and press the button.

The doors close on whatever interrogation was about to follow.

I pull out my phone.

Nothing from Kyle.

I type quickly.

Running a little late. Leaving now. Sorry!

Delivered.

I shove my phone into my bag.

The bus ride takes twenty-three minutes.

I know because I spend every single one of them checking the time.

By the time I reach the restaurant, I’m twelve minutes late and slightly sweaty from practically jogging the last block in loafers.

Aggressively librarian loafers.

Damn Jamie.

I catch my reflection in the glass doors and quickly smooth my hair.

It doesn’t help.

Whatever.

Kyle has seen me sick.

He’s seen me without makeup.

He once watched me throw up after drinking four vodka cranberries at his cousin’s wedding.

Twelve minutes late and slightly sweaty shouldn’t end the relationship.

I pull open the door.

Cool air hits my face.

Thank God.

The restaurant is nicer than I expected.

Much nicer.

Dim lighting.

White tablecloths.

Candles.

A massive chandelier hangs over the center of the dining room, throwing soft golden light across polished glasses and silverware.

I glance down at myself.

At least I’m still dressed from work.

Kyle told me he made reservations.

He failed to mention we were eating somewhere that appears to charge separately for breathing.

A hostess smiles as I approach.

“Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes. Six o’clock.”

She looks down at the screen.

“Name?”

“Kyle Flynn.”

Her fingers move across the keyboard.

Then stop.

She tries again.

I watch her expression change.

That tiny polite tightening around the eyes people get when they’re about to tell you something inconvenient.

“I’m sorry. I’m not seeing anything under that name.”

I blink.

“Maybe Bennett?”

She checks.

Nothing.

“Could it be under another name?”

“No.”

I pull out my phone.

Maybe Kyle got the restaurant wrong.

That would be very Kyle.

I call him.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

Voicemail.

I hang up.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “One second.”

I check my texts.

Nothing.

I send another.

I’m here. They don’t have the reservation. Are you close?

Delivered.

The hostess gives me an apologetic smile.

“We are completely booked at the moment.”

Of course they are.

“But…”

She looks toward the bar.

“I can seat you there while you wait. If something opens up, I’ll do my best to get you a table.”

Relief washes over me.

“That would be great. Thank you.”

She leads me toward the bar.

I climb onto a stool and put my bag beside me.

The bartender appears.

“What can I get you?”

“A margarita.”

“Classic?”

“Yes.”

He disappears.

I check my phone.

Nothing.

5:59.

Technically, Kyle isn’t late yet.

I set my phone face down.

The margarita arrives.

I take a sip.

Then another.

6:03

6:07

6:12

By 6:20 I’ve checked the entrance approximately seventeen times.

Still no Kyle.

Still no text.

Still no call.

I stare at my phone.

The bartender walks past.

“You okay?”

I look up.

“Yeah.”

He glances at the empty stool beside me.

Then at my phone.

His expression softens.

Oh God.

I’m officially the woman being stood up at the bar.

“I’m fine,” I add.

He nods.

“Another?”

I look at my half-finished margarita.

“Maybe in a minute.”

He smiles and moves away.

I unlock my phone again.

Nothing from Kyle.

But there is another message.

One I’ve been deliberately ignoring since this afternoon.

Theodore: I need to see you again.

I stare at it.

The words haven’t magically become less intense in the last three hours.

I still don’t know how he got my number.

Actually, that’s not true.

He probably asked Elena.

Or found it through the newspaper.

Or snapped his fingers and had one of his terrifyingly efficient employees retrieve every piece of information about me from birth.

That feels equally possible.

I should answer.

The follow-up meeting is good.

Professionally.

That’s the important part.

Professionally.

Theodore De Luca doesn’t give interviews often. A second meeting could give me material nobody else has.

My editor would love it.

It could turn a standard profile into something bigger.

Maybe even front page.

This is about work.

Nothing else.

Definitely not about the fact that I’ve thought about him approximately four hundred times since leaving his office.

I open the message.

My thumbs hover over the keyboard.

I’ll be there tomorrow at ten.

I read it.

Normal.

Professional.

Good.

I hit send.

The front door opens.

I glance up.

And nearly choke on my margarita.

No.

Absolutely not.

Theodore De Luca walks into the restaurant.

Because apparently the universe has decided I haven’t suffered enough today.

He’s changed since this morning.

No tie.

Dark slacks.

Black button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms.

The top two buttons are undone.

I can see the edge of ink near his collarbone.

I immediately look away.

Nope.

I grab my margarita.

Very interesting margarita.

Fascinating, actually.

Salt.

Lime.

Ice.

I could write an article about this margarita.

Across the room, the hostess greets him.

I can hear her voice change from here.

“Mr. De Luca.”

Of course.

I glance over.

She’s smiling at him.

Not the polite smile she gave me.

A different smile.

Her shoulders go back.

Her chest goes forward.

And I swear to God she subtly adjusts the neckline of her dress.

I almost laugh.

Then Theodore smiles at her.

Actually smiles.

My amusement disappears.

Interesting.

Apparently his face does that.

He says something I can’t hear.

The hostess laughs.

Touches his arm.

And Theodore looks down at her with that same easy smile.

I take a long drink.

Whatever.

He can flirt with whoever he wants.

Obviously.

I don’t care.

Why would I care?

I met the man this morning.

I have a boyfriend.

A boyfriend who is currently twenty-two minutes late and apparently dead, but still.

Boyfriend.

I take another sip.

I glance back.

Theodore is still talking to her.

Then his head turns.

His eyes find mine.

Instantly.

Like he knew exactly where to look.

My stomach drops.

For one humiliating second, we just stare at each other.

His smile disappears.

Something changes in his expression.

Then his eyes move over me.

Slowly.

My face gets hot.

I turn back to the bar so fast I nearly give myself whiplash.

No.

Didn’t happen.

I pick up my margarita.

Definitely didn’t happen.

I can feel him looking at me.

I refuse to turn around.

Maybe he’ll go to his table.

Maybe he’ll pretend he didn’t see me.

Maybe—

“Ms. Bennett.”