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He offers me his arm. “I made us reservations at one of my favorite restaurants. I think you’ll like it. You love reading, right?”
“I do, yeah.” My heart warms. He remembered? Or did Lissa remind him at some point today?
The drive only takes 15 minutes, and then we’re parked in front of an older brick building. Diners sit on the patio under umbrellas, chatting and eating delicious-looking food.
When we get inside, I gasp. Beautiful chandeliers hang from the ceiling, shining on white tablecloths and pristine wine glasses. But that’s not what I care about.
I care about the walls, covered in bookshelves all the way to the ceiling. People stroll on the floors above us, either looking at all the books or staring down into the dining room.
“Brent, this is beautiful,” I say. Even as a hostess leads us to our table, I can’t take my eyes off the shelves bursting with books, new and old.
“I thought you might like it. I came here with my grandmother a lot when I was younger.” Brent pulls out my chair for me and helps me get settled.
“I can’t believe I never knew this place existed.” I beam at Brent. “This was so thoughtful of you.”
He shrugs. “I can’t take all the credit.”
Giggling, I say, “Lissa told you what I like?”
Brent nods, reaching across the table to take my wrist in his. “I want you to enjoy yourself tonight. Don’t worry about the prices of anything. Just forget about whatever’s bugging you, okay?”
“Oh—you don’t have to pay. I’m perfectly fine with splitting the bill.” Sure, the cost of one meal here could probably buy me groceries for a week. But I make my own money, dammit. And I have no desire to be financially dependent on a man.
“No, please. Let me. I have a real job. I don’t mind.”
“A real job.” I can already feel my stomach twisting. Seriously? I work my ass off every day. “Food service jobs are real jobs.”
“Right, of course. You know what I mean. It just doesn’t pay well, that’s all. Not that I mind. I don’t, I swear. I honestly believe the man in a relationship should provide financially. Women are better at other things.”
Great. How did I attract a fucking misogynist?
Alexander might be an asshole, but he hasn’t tried to control my career or my finances. On the contrary, when he saw that I was writing a book, he was happy for me. Proud of me.
When he saw I was in over my head, he didn’t tell me I was incapable. He did what he could to support me without getting in my way.
Still, the jerk thinks he owns you.
And you fucking like it, Sophia.
I give Brent a polite smile. This isn’t the place for my inner feminist to tear him to shreds, and I don’t have the energy tonight. Instead, I do as he says and order one of the most expensive items on the menu.
We chat while waiting for our food. He tells me a bit more about his grandmother. She loved poetry the most, and she left Brent her collection when she passed.
I let him in on my family a bit—leaving out the parts in which Francis Hendricks completely ruined my father.
“So, what’s going on with you and that guy from the coffee shop?” Brent asks, sipping his wine.
For a moment, I just stare at him—because Brent is the guy from the coffee shop, in my mind. “Oh, Alexander? It’s complicated. I’m not really sure what we are.”
“He seems a bit immature. But I suppose he’s still young.”
“He’s my age.” I shrug. I almost forgot that Brent is in his early thirties. “We dated in high school.”
“Oof. Tough competition. He already knows you.” He winks, and I have to hide my cringe.
First Tristan, and now Brent. Why do men think women are something to be won? At least Alexander doesn’t—but that’s because he’s practically forcing me into a relationship.
Except now he’s giving me a choice?
