I give up and toss my phone on the couch. Claire is impossible when she gets an idea in her head, and apparently she's decided that breakfast with Carter and Maya is some kind of romantic milestone.
It's not. It's just breakfast. Just pancakes and coffee and a four-year-old who likes my dog.
Except I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me when he said I was "better than fine." Can't stop replaying our conversation, the way he opened up about his past, the small smile that made something flutter in my chest.
I feed Biscuit, who acts like he hasn't eaten in weeks despite the fact that he gets the same amount of food at the same time every single day, and make myself a sandwich I don't really want.
Then I shower, change into pajamas, and stare at my closet like it holds the answers to the universe.
What does one wear for "not a date" breakfast with a former MC member and his adorable daughter?
Next Day
I barely sleep.
Every time I start to doze off, my brain helpfully reminds me of every awkward thing I said tonight. The "date" comment, obviously. But also the way I rambled about the school. The way I probably talked too much about Biscuit. The way I just sat there staring at him while he told me about watching people die.
God, I'm a mess.
By the time Claire shows up at seven, punctual despite my desperate hope that she'd forget or oversleep, I'm already on my third cup of coffee and second outfit attempt.
"Okay, what are we working with?" she asks, breezing past me into my bedroom like she owns the place. Biscuit follows her, tail wagging, because Claire always brings him treats.
"It's not a date," I say for what feels like the thousandth time.
"Right, right. Not a date. Just breakfast with a hot biker who saved you from three attackers and apparently has a tragic past and a cute kid." Claire starts rifling through my closet with the efficiency of a military general. "Totally normal Tuesday morning activity."
"He's not—I mean, I don't know if he's hot. I haven't really thought about it that way."
Claire turns to look at me, one eyebrow raised so high it's practically in her hairline. "You are the worst liar I've ever met."
"Fine. He's attractive. In a scary, dangerous, has-probably-killed-people kind of way."
"The best kind of attractive," Claire says cheerfully, pulling out a blue sweater I forgot I owned. "This. With your dark jeans. The ones that actually fit properly, not the ones you hide in because you're convinced everyone is judging your body."
I take the sweater from her, holding it up. It's soft, flattering, the kind of blue that apparently makes my eyes look good. My ex hated this sweater. Said it was too tight, too attention-seeking.
Which probably means it's perfect.
"I don't know," I say anyway, because old habits die hard. "Maybe something more casual? I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."
"Alice." Claire sits on my bed, her expression shifting from playful to serious. "You're going to wear the blue sweater and the good jeans. You're going to do your hair the way you like it, not the way he liked it. And you're going to go have breakfast with a man who thinks you're worth fighting three guys for."
My throat feels tight. "What if he only said yes because Maya likes Biscuit?"
"Then he's a good dad who makes time for things that make his kid happy. Still a point in his favor." She stands up, walks over, and puts her hands on my shoulders. "But I don't think that's why he said yes. I think he said yes because you came looking for him. Because you were brave enough to walk into that grill and say thank you. Because you're pretty and kind."
"You haven't even met him."
"Don't need to. I can see it on your face." She squeezes my shoulders gently. "Wear the sweater. Trust me."
So, I do.
I put on the blue sweater and the good jeans, the ones that fit my curves instead of hiding them, the ones that make me look like I have an actual shape instead of just existing as an amorphous blob. I do my hair the way I like it, loose and natural, not straightened within an inch of its life the way my ex preferred.
I even put on a little makeup. Not much, just enough to feel put together. To feel like someone worth having breakfast with.
Claire leaves at seven-thirty with strict instructions to text her the moment I get home. Biscuit and I leave at seven forty-five, even though The Grind is only a ten-minute walk and I'm going to be absurdly early. I can't help it. I'm too nervous to sit at home anymore, too anxious about what I'm wearing, what I'll say, whether this is the stupidest thing I've ever done.