Or maybe that’s just my brain trying to sabotage me. Again.
Out of sheer survival instinct, I clear my throat and try again—carefully, slowly, like someone diffusing a bomb. “You look great, by the way. Really great. The kind of great that probably makes other people consider breaking up with whoever they’re dating.”
She turns her head toward me, one brow raised. “Better.”
“Only took me three attempts.”
“Well,” she says, settling back in her seat, “you’re trending upwards. Keep going and by dessert you might manage an actual compliment without referencing livestock.”
I chuckle—mostly out of relief. Maybe I haven’t completely tanked this. Yet.
The Uber pulls up outside the restaurant, and I make a noble attempt to get out smoothly. My leg catches the door, I grunt softly, and then do that thing where you pretend it didn’t happen and carry on as if your shin isn’t throbbing.
I go around and open Ivy’s door like some strange cross between a gentleman and a concierge with boundary issues. She takes my hand as she steps out—steadying herself more than anything else—and I’m fairly certain I hear the leather trousers emit a warning creak.
Inside, the restaurant is all low lighting, starched linens and that kind of expensive hush that makes you instinctively lower your voice and regret your footwear.
The maître d’ greets us with a professional nod, clipboard in hand, posture so perfect it makes my spine feel self-conscious.
“Name?” he asks, expression unreadable.
“Theo Corbin,” I say.
Then—because apparently I have verbal diarrhea—I add, “Table for two. Just us two. On a date.”
“Right,” he sneers. “Follow me.”
Behind me, I feel Ivy’s confusion radiating like a polite heatwave. She says nothing, which honestly makes it worse.
The maître d’ leads us through the restaurant with gliding precision, every step somehow silently judging our entire lives. Ivy walks like she belongs here. I walk like someone trying to remember how knees work.
At our table, Ivy lowers herself slowly into the chair with the measured control of someone managing high-stakes leather trousers. I do my best not to knock over anything as I sit.
Then we both just... stop.
Silence.
The sort of silence where napkins suddenly become very interesting.
I try to smile. Ivy gives me one back—polite, patient. Encouraging, maybe. Or pitying.
Say something, Theo. Something charming. Light. Interesting.
“Did you know that after the Siege of Vienna in 1683, the Ottoman army left behind sacks of green coffee beans, and that’s how Viennese café culture started?”
She gives me a puzzled look.
“Um... no?”
I nod like I’ve just shared an exciting personal triumph. “Yep. They filtered it with muslin and added milk and sugar to make it taste better. To the locals, I mean. And then coffeehouses started becoming social hubs—places for conversation and community—”
Stop talking, Theo. They told you not to do this. No bean chat. No brewing history. No bloody café trivia before the starters.
I take a sip of water and pretend I didn’t just monologue my way into the nerd quadrant before we’ve even looked at the menu.
Ivy’s watching me now with a look I can’t quite read—halfway betweenmild fascinationandis this man okay?
“I really liked your ankles comment better,” she says at last, dry as toast.
