"Just a confused old woman who thought she was collecting acorns instead of secrets." I shake my head. "The assistant begged me not to publish. Said it would crush the dean if her mother became campus gossip."
Dane studies me, something shifting behind his eyes. "You walked away from your story."
"Some secrets deserve to stay buried." I fiddle with my napkin. "Besides, the assistant was so grateful, she slipped me a flash drive with evidence of the school's budget mismanagement of a remodel project. I broke that story instead."
He actually laughs then—a low, rough sound that seems to surprise both of us. "Opportunistic."
"I prefer 'adaptable,'" I reply, clinking my glass against his.
The conversation flows easier than I expected, our initial awkwardness dissolving with each story shared. His face relaxes subtly, those sharp edges softening just enough to glimpse the man beneath the intensity. When the waiter delivers our entrees—steak for him, linguini for me—a comfortable rhythm has emerged between us.
"So," Dane says, cutting into his steak with surgical precision, "you mentioned New Orleans. Your family still there?"
I twirl pasta around my fork, buying time. "Yeah. My parents still live in the same house I grew up in. Dad teaches English at a community college, Mom runs a little bookstore in the French Quarter."
Not the whole truth, but not a lie either. I'd rather eat broken glass than explain the strained phone calls twice a year and my dad's disappointed sighs because I refuse to visit.
"You don't visit much," he observes.
Wow, perceptive! I snort before I can stop myself. "What gave it away?"
"The way you say 'New Orleans' like it's a foreign country."
Damn. I take a large sip of wine. "We're not... close. They wanted a daughter who'd stay, marry a nice Southern boy, maybe teach kindergarten." I shrug. "Instead they got me."
"Their loss," he says simply.
Something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the wine. I clear my throat. "What about you? Any family in New York?"
His face shutters slightly, but he doesn't completely close off. "Had an older sister. Juliet."
The past tense hangs heavy between us. I wait, giving him space to continue or not.
"She was smart. Fierce." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "When I was ten, she punched a kid who stole my lunch money. Broke his nose."
"Sounds like I might have needed her on my side."
"You'd have liked her." He takes a careful sip of water. "She liked people who didn't take shit."
If he knew I wasn't always the kind of person who stands for herself. I had to learn the hard way.
I notice he doesn't mention how she died, and I don't push. Loss has its own timeline.
"Parents?" I ask, steering toward potentially safer ground.
His laugh is sharp, humorless. "My parents are gone."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. Besides they were never first date conversation material."
"You can trust me," I say teasingly, trying to lighten the sudden heaviness. "My therapist says I have excellent emotional bandwidth."
"You seeing a therapist?"
"No, but it sounded professional, right?"
That gets me a real smile, brief but genuine. "Parents were complicated. Dad was a lawyer, Mom..." He trails off, something dark crossing his face. "Let's just say family history isn't my strong suit."
