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Is this what life is like for him all the time?
People staring at him like he’s dangerous?
We’re led to a table in the corner when we enter the restaurant, but my mind is still stuck on the street outside, watching that family walk by. I don’t know whether to bring it up or not. The last thing I want is to embarrass Duke, but after we order our drinks, I’m spared having to make a decision.
“Sorry about that,” Duke says, looking down at his bandaged thumb, not meeting my gaze.
I don’t understand him at first. “About what?”
“The people on the street.” He furrows his brow. “They can stare at me all they want, but I don’t like them looking at you just for being with me.”
“I don’t care who looks at us, Duke.” My heart twinges as I add, “Does that happen a lot?”
“All the time,” he grunts. “Especially in summer. Tourist season. More people around—people who aren’t used to seeing me.”
“They shouldn’t stare like that.” Anger flares like fire in my gut. “It’s not right.”
Duke sighs. “It’s a pain in the ass. But I’m seven feet tall with a face covered in scars. People are always gonna stare. They stare at anybody who doesn’t fit in.”
I nod, smiling sadly. “I know a thing or two about not fitting in.”
“You mean with your family?”
“Not just that.”
We’re interrupted for a moment while a young woman brings our drinks before taking our order. Once she’s gone, Duke prompts me to keep talking.
“I had a rough time at school,” I say eventually. “There was a lot of bullying because of…you know, my weight and stuff.” I bite my lip, unable to meet his gaze. “I know what it’s like to feel different.”
A moment later, warmth engulfs my hand, and I look down to see Duke’s fingers covering mine. The shock of his touch makes my heart stutter, and I look up into his deep blue eyes, sucking in a breath when I see the rage swirling in them.
“Who bullied you?” he asks firmly. “Names?”
It’s lucky I’m sitting down: the protectiveness in his voice makes my knees weaken, my legs turning to mush.
“It was years ago. They all either went off to college or moved away. I’m pretty sure the worst ones don’t even live in Colorado anymore.”
Duke mutters something about “catching a flight” and “finding the bastards”, and I have to bite back a smile.
“I’m not interested in getting even with my school bullies,” I say honestly. “All I meant is I know how you feel. It’s how I felt back in high school. I was the biggest girl there, and it wasn’t easy to be treated like a freak for being different.”
Duke seems to be grinding his jaw. His hand is tight on mine, like he’s trying not to clench his fists.
“They were stupid assholes, Ariana,” he grits out. “I hate knowing that anybody made you feel like that. Your body is fucking gorgeous.”
The intensity in his voice sends a shiver through me, and for the space of a few heartbeats, I’m speechless.
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.
His eyes are burning into me, and the restaurant melts away. The buzz of chatter, the clink of cutlery, the hum of music: it all vanishes, leaving nothing but Duke’s face. It might be scarred and weathered, but that only makes him look more handsome, especially now I know that his scars came from being a hero. I’ve never met anybody like him. He’s gruff, serious, rough around the edges, but also kind. Gentle. Caring. The kind of man to rescue a feral kitten with no tail and build a bookcase for nothing, just because he can.
I want to express all these thoughts. I want to tell him how he makes me feel. But it’s too crazy. Too soon. The words won’t come, and before I can say anything else, the server returns with our meals. I bite into my crispy chicken sandwich; Duke cuts into his steak, and the moment to speak is gone.
Our conversation turns to more normal things as we eat. I tell Duke about my favorite mystery books, and he listens while I gush about the Agatha Christie novel I’m reading. In turn, he tells me about life in the woods. The hidden waterfalls and overgrown trails blooming with flowers, the rich wildlife, the birds and plants. He tells me about the store and how his grandpa opened it in the fifties, and I tell him more about my plans for a future bookstore. We even talk more about his time in the military—how the other soldiers welcomed him with open arms, making him feel normal for the first time in his life.
“Thanks, that was delicious,” I say, polishing off the last fry, energy buzzing through me from our conversation. All I drank tonight was orange juice, but learning all about Duke makes me feel a little tipsy.
“Glad you enjoyed it.” He smiles at me. “Ready for dessert?”
