Page 139 of The Temporary Bride

She gives me a small smile, and I move to pull out her chair. As she sits down, I push the chair in carefully, making sure she’s comfortable before taking my seat across from her.

“I hope you don’t mind,” I say, trying to mask my nerves with a touch of nonchalance, “but I took the liberty of ordering a bottle for us. If you’d prefer something else…”

Chloe picks up the bottle, turning it in her hands to read the label. One eyebrow arches in playful curiosity. “Chateau Margaux, huh?”

“I thought a merlot might be fitting for this evening.”

The corner of her mouth quirks up into a near-smile. “Did you, now?”

I reach for the bottle, and she lets me take it. I fill her glass.

“This is supposed to be a first date,” she says, still smiling. I take that as a good sign. “Don’t you think it’s cheating if you order my favorite wine on a first date?”

“Cheating? How would it be cheating?”

“If you didn’t already know me, how would you know I like merlot?” She lifts her glass to take a sip.

It’s a light-hearted opener to our conversation, and I know it’s an invitation to join in the banter. But I can’t. After everything that’s happened between us, I don’t have the luxury. Not yet.

“I can’t go back to a time when I didn’t know these things about you,” I say, my tone serious. “When I didn’t have every detail of your features burned into my mind. When I wasn’t constantly thinking about you.”

Chloe catches her breath. She sets her glass down on the table, her fingers stiff. “Tristan,” she murmurs, the sound so low it’s almost lost beneath the quiet conversations and clinking of silverware.

I lean forward. “I know. I promise, I know. You’re not ready yet. But I can’t hold back or hide how I’m feeling. I won’t.”

She seems uncertain, her gaze darting between me and the tablecloth. Her teeth are worrying at her lower lip, like they always do when she’s nervous. It only strengthens my resolve.

“I want you to know,” I tell her. “Every day for the rest of your life, I want you to know how I feel about you.”

Before she can respond, the waiter returns. We both turn our attention to him. “Would you like to get started with appetizers, or any additional drinks?”

“Some hors d’oeuvres would be a good idea.” I glance over at Chloe. “What do you think?”

She nods faintly, her gaze still a bit unfocused from my earlier declaration. Her eyes dart down to the menu, her fingers tracing the edge as if trying to ground herself in the decision.

“I think that sounds nice,” she replies. “Maybe the olive tapenade and the stuffed mushrooms?”

“Excellent choice, madam.” He scribbles down the order, then vanishes once more into the kitchen.

Once he leaves, silence descends on our table for a few moments. The unspoken weight between us is suffocating. I can tell she feels the same way. Weeks of swallowed conversations, words we never had the chance to exchange, simmering away just beneath the surface.

I take a deep breath, determined to ease the tension. “So, what movies has Ivy been feeding you?”

The question seems to catch her off guard. “Feeding me?”

“Sure.” I lift my glass, giving the merlot a swirl. “I’ve known more than a few cinephiles in my day. I’m well aware that you need a steady diet of movies, or you start to go insane.”

She laughs. A bright, real laugh. It’s been far too long since I last heard that sound, and it immediately seems to bring light to the room.

And there are those dimples. I’ve been waiting to see those.

“Yeah, well, you’re not wrong,” she says. “I need movies to survive. Unfortunately, I’ve been living on the film equivalent of McDonald’s since I left the hospital.”

“What, junk movies?”

She makes a face, an exaggerated grimace. “Yeah. Ivy doesn’t exactly have an artist’s mindset toward cinema.”

I think for a moment, trying to remember the movie marathons of our shared childhood. “If memory serves, she’s into romcoms.”