"Jason is a gossip and I fell asleep on the couch. Vaughn's shoulder happened to be there."
"And the lava cake?"
"He likes salted caramel. I'm a chef. I remember food preferences. It's literally my job."
"Your job that you hate."
"I don't hate my—" I stop. Pick up the black shirt. "I'm wearing the black. Brett doesn't deserve the green."
Toby lets it go, because Toby always knows when to let things go. He helps me fix my hair, tells me I look great, and right before we hang up he says, very casually, "You know, it's okay to like someone specifically. Not everyone. Just one person."
"I don't like anyone specifically. I like everyone. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
I hang up and stare at myself in the bathroom mirror. Black V-neck, jeans that make my ass look spectacular, hair doing the artful-mess thing that takes twenty minutes to achieve. I look good. I look like someone who goes on dates and has fun and doesn't think about a grumpy mechanic's reading glasses while getting ready for dinner with someone else.
I grab my keys and leave before I can talk myself out of it. Brett is late picking me up.
The restaurant is nice. Not great — the lighting's trying too hard, the menu has too many adjectives, and the bread basket is room temperature, which is a crime — but nice. Brett is already there when I arrive, and he stands up to greet me, which is a good sign.
"Robin. You look amazing." He pulls out my chair.
"Thanks. You look like your pictures, which puts you ahead of ninety percent of app dates."
He laughs. He has a good laugh — warm, easy, the kind that makes the table next to us glance over with approval. We order drinks. He asks about my work.
"I'm a pastry chef. Catering company."
"That's cool. I can barely make toast."
"Toast is an underrated skill. Good toast requires timing and attention."
He laughs again. Asks good follow-up questions — what kind of pastry, how did I get into it, what's my favorite thing to make. He listens. He makes eye contact. He has, as advertised, an excellent jaw.
This should be working. This is exactly the kind of date I'm good at — low-stakes, fun conversation, mutual attraction, the easy promise of something that doesn't need to be more than tonight. This is what I do. This is what I'm built for.
So why am I thinking about crossword puzzles and motorcycle grease?
The second round of drinks arrives and Brett's hand lands on my knee under the table. Not subtle about it — firm, proprietary, his thumb rubbing circles through my jeans.
"So," he says. "I have a great bottle of wine at my place. If you want to continue the evening somewhere more private."
"I'm good here for now. Tell me more about the hiking."
His hand stays on my knee. "The hiking's better in person. I could show you this weekend."
"Maybe. What trails do you like?"
His grip tightens. Just slightly — enough that I notice, not enough that I could call it aggressive. His eyes do something that his smile doesn't match. "You're hard to pin down, aren't you?"
"I've been told."
"I like a challenge."
The waiter brings our entrees and Brett's hand retreats. I eat my salmon — overcooked, disappointing — and steer the conversation back to neutral territory. Movies, travel, safe topics. Brett recovers, becomes charming again, tells a funny story about his golden retriever that might actually be his. I relax a fraction.
Then he orders my dessert without asking.