"Most days, no. I love what I do, love being part of people's happiest moments. But sometimes..." I trail off, suddenly embarrassed by how provincial I must sound to someone who's seen the world, even if it was through the lens of military service.
"Sometimes what?"
"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be the bride instead of just the one arranging the flowers."
I duck my head, hiding behind the curtain of my hair, mortified that I just admitted to a virtual stranger that I'm desperate for my own love story.
"You want to get married."
"Someday," I say, then decide if we're being honest, I might as well be completely honest. "I want the whole thing. Thewedding, the husband, the babies. The house with the white picket fence and Sunday morning pancakes. I know it's old-fashioned and probably naive, but—"
"It's not naive." His voice is rough, almost aggressive. "It's what you deserve."
The certainty in his tone makes me look up, and what I see in his expression takes my breath away. He's looking at me like I'm something he wants to protect and possess in equal measure, like the very idea of me having those things with someone else is physically painful to him.
Which is crazy. Right? We just met yesterday.
Before I can analyze it further, he's pulling into a parking lot in front of a building I don't recognize. It's charming in that rustic-chic way that's popular now—exposed brick and weathered wood with string lights creating a warm, inviting glow.
"Rosemary's," Marc says, reading the sign above the door. "It just opened a couple weeks ago. Thought you might like to try somewhere new."
"I've been meaning to check it out," I say, grateful for the distraction from our conversation. "I heard they have an amazing chef."
He comes around to open my door before I can do it myself, offering his hand to help me down from the truck.
"Thank you," I murmur, very aware that he hasn't let go of my hand.
"My pleasure."
We walk to the restaurant entrance together, his hand warm and steady on my back. It's a possessive gesture, claiming, and I should probably object to being steered around like I belong to him.
Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch.
The hostess greets us with a bright smile that falters slightly when she gets a good look at Marc. I can't blame her. He's the kind of man who commands attention without trying, all controlled power and barely leashed intensity. But there's something almost frightening about the way he surveys the restaurant, like he's cataloging exits and potential threats instead of admiring the décor.
"Table for two," he says, his voice polite but with an underlying edge that makes the hostess nod quickly and grab menus.
She leads us to a corner table that gives Marc a clear view of the entire restaurant, and I realize he chose it deliberately. Old habits from his military days, probably, but it strikes me as both protective and slightly paranoid.
"This is lovely," I say once we're seated, trying to ease some of the tension I can feel radiating from him, "But you seem nervous," I observe softly.
His amber eyes snap to mine, and for a moment, I see something wild flash in their depths. "Do I?"
"A little. Like you're expecting trouble."
"I'm not used to..." He gestures vaguely between us. "This. Being around people. Especially people who matter."
People who matter…
"Well, you're doing fine so far," I assure him. "Though you might want to stop glaring at that poor waiter. He looks terrified."
Marc glances over at the young man hovering uncertainly by the kitchen door and has the grace to look sheepish. "Sorry. Occupational hazard."
"From the Marines?"
"Among other things." He picks up his menu, effectively ending that line of conversation. "What looks good to you?"
I let him change the subject again, but I file away this glimpse of vulnerability. Underneath all that controlled intensity, Marc Steel is just as nervous about this as I am. Maybe more so.
