Page 61 of Breaking the Ice

“Are you sure you want to go out?” The words pop out of my mouth before I can think. “Because we could order in and⁠—”

“Are you kidding?” She cuts me off, laughing. “I didn’t get all dressed up to stay in. Are those for me?”

She points to the bouquet I’m still clutching. Thank god for her common sense. I might want her desperately, but we rushed into things. She’s not ready yet, so I won’t push it. Although some parts of my anatomy just don’t care about that logic. Especially now that I’ve seen this dress.

“Oh, yes.” I hand them to her as my manners kick in. “You look amazing, by the way.”

She beams. “Thank you.”

We don’t have any vases to put them in—duh, I should have bought one at the store—so Isabella improvises and uses a plastic cup from a local pizza place. It kind of ruins the effect, but she still seems happy that I brought her flowers.

She doesn’t stop smiling the whole way out to my car—I remember to open the door for her—and I try my best to act like a gentleman and not look down her dress. But damn, do I want to.

Even though I probably didn’t need a reservation at The Wyatt on a Wednesday night, I still made one. Hadley said it would look impressive, like I put thought into things. She makes a good wingman—wingwoman?—because Isabella’s eyes light up when I say, “Reservation for two under ‘Young,’” to the hostess.

I hold my arm out for Isabella, and she tucks her hand into the crook of my elbow as we wind our way through the tables. The dim Edison bulb lights and clean, stark lines give off industrial vibes. It’s a newer restaurant on the edge of town, more modern than most of the places in Lafayette, and doesn’t have a college feel at all.

Which is good, since I’m taking my wife here on a date and I’m trying to impress her with how grown up I am. Although if I’m using the words “grown up,” I’m clearly not.

We’re seated at a small square table in a secluded back corner. Instead of sitting across from me, Isabella sits next to me, and I love that our knees brush.

“Thanks for this,” she says, eyes glowing. “Should we take a picture?”

I had forgotten all about that. We snap a few, and she makes me send her the best one. I’ll post it later, maybe tomorrow. Right now I want to enjoy our time together.

“Did you know we have a hashtag?” I ask. “I know you’re not big into social media, but it’s kind of cute. I think Payton started it, maybe, or one of her followers.”

“Yeah?” She stiffens in her chair, and her gaze darts around the restaurant, wary. “I’m not sure how I feel about that. What is it?”

“Young and in love.” I take a sip of my water. “Ms. Barnes likes it, too, but if you don’t, we don’t have to use it.”

Isabella relaxes. “Oh, that’s adorable. And it reminds me, I need to fill out the paperwork to change my name.”

“Nah, you don’t need to go through all that.” She only agreed to stay married to me for the sake of the college’s publicity and the impact on her dad and the hockey program. Ms. Barnes’s text asking for content reminded me of that. I want to pursue things with her, but we agreed to the annulment. Be a man of your word. Don’t pressure her, Evan.

I told her that I was glad we didn’t annul. And she didn’t say it back. It’s pretty clear this has an end date. Doesn’t mean I can’t try to show her how good things could be…but also, I don’t want to complicate it.

Isabella opens her mouth to say something, but our waiter appears. He takes our drink orders—a white wine for her and a bourbon for me. No boilermakers tonight—it’s not that kind of place and who knows what might happen when those are involved? Would we buy a dog? A house? Get pregnant? I shudder. No, thank you.

Our waiter brings our beverages, and I change the subject and ask about her music classes and upcoming events.

“I can’t believe we’re almost done with this semester. Just a few more projects, and finals, and then Christmas.” She blinks, then takes a gulp of her wine. “Oh my gosh, Christmas. We’ve got a lot to navigate.”

Before I can figure out what she means, our waiter clears his throat. “What can I get you to eat tonight?”

Isabella glances over at me, then up at him. “My husband is allergic to tree nuts. Is that going to be a problem?”

My heart warms with her concern. It feels nice to have someone looking out for me.

“Oh, that’s fine.” The waiter jots something onto his notepad. “I’ll make sure there is no cross-contamination.”

“Thank you.”

We order, and once our waiter leaves, I turn back to Isabella. “What did you mean? Do you not like Christmas?”

“I love it. The cookies, the tree, the decorations. All the fun traditions.” She waves her hand around in the air, encompassing everything. “But I was thinking more about your schedule.”

Oh. Athletes don’t really get the typical holiday break. I swirl the ice in my glass. “I’m sorry I have hockey games and have to travel over Christmas break, but I figured you were used to that, with your dad and all.”