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She runs her hands over the smooth leather seats. “Not exactly your standard Uber,” she says.
“Definitely not. It’s safer. Requires more thorough background checks for drivers and gives us the assurance of knowing Dean will be available for us all evening long, no matter how long we take or where we ask to go.”
Dean nods from the front seat, and I give him the address of Magnolia’s, my favorite restaurant in the city.
“Why not a regular Uber though?” she asks. “Is all this really necessary?”
“I know it probably seems excessive when you aren’t used to it,” I say. “But the extra security and precaution is important.”
Sadie’s quiet as she buckles her seatbelt, then leans forward to fiddle with the hem of her dress. The dress is amazing—made of a white, flowy material. It comes up high in the front and hooks around her neck, but the back is open to her waist, revealing a whole canvas of skin I’d like to explore. When she first came out of her room and we were walking up the stairs, I had to resist the urge to trace my finger up her spine. I definitely plan to do so later. More than once, if possible.
“So, you wanted the extra security because of me?”
It was one of German’s stipulations, but I often use a car service anyway. “Today, it’s all about you. But generally, it’s …”
My words trail off because I’m not sure how to explain without seeming self-important, or worse, without freaking Sadie out. There are a lot of things that wealthy people do thatare undoubtedly ridiculous and over the top. But sometimes, it’s simply a matter of keeping ourselves safe.
“On Oakley, I can just exist. People know about my wealth. But most of them also watched me grow up. I’m just Ben to them. Off the island, though, it’s not the same.” I reach over and clasp her hand, reveling in the way even this simple touch feels likemore. “It’s not like I’m a household name or that my face is recognizable to everyone.”
Sadie grins. “You mean, you’re not Taylor Swift-level famous?”
“Not quite.” I grin back at her. “That said, my wealth is public knowledge. I’m not paying for the luxury as much as I’m paying for peace of mind.”
Her lips lift into a small smile even as she shakes her head. “It makes sense when you explain it that way, but I’m still not sure I’ll ever get used to this.”
The fact that we’re even talking about herneedingto get used to this sends a pulse of anticipation racing through me. We’re actually doing this. I’m on adate—a real one—with Sadie Markham.
I stretch my arm across the back seat, brushing my fingers across her bare shoulder. “I hope you will. Now, tell me how you feel about fried green tomatoes.”
I’ve haddinner with a lot of women. Wined and dined them. Enjoyed the attention it earned me in return. But I’ve never done this. I’ve never sat across from someone and been so wholly invested in impressing her. But not because of my wealth or my possessions or even my fancy Yale education. I just wanther to likeme.I want her to think I’m the kind of man who can make her happy.
Unfortunately, all thiswantingis making me stumbling and awkward. I’ve dropped my butter knife three times, and I just knocked my water glass over onto our very patient server when she took our order. My hands are trembling, I keep making very bad jokes involving very bad puns, and my upper lip won’t stop sweating.
“Hey,” Sadie says when the waiter leaves with a pile of sopping wet napkins and a good chunk of my dignity. She reaches over and picks up my hand, slipping her fingers into mine. “What’s going on with you? You seem all flustered.”
There’s a hint of laughter in her eyes, but also a measure of legitimate concern.
“You know there’s no one watching,” she says. “Mostly because you rented out this whole room. I don’t want to know how much that set you back, by the way.”
She definitely doesn’t want to know. The Wine Room upstairs at Magnolia’s normally seats twenty-four. Tonight, after making a phone call, it’s just Sadie and me at a table in front of the bay window overlooking historic Charleston.
And German, hulking at a table toward the back. But we’ll ignore the agent lucky enough to get a delicious meal out of this.
I squeeze Sadie’s hand gently and lift my shoulders in an easy shrug. I’m determined to be completely transparent with this woman, even if that means owning feelings I’d never admit to anyone else. Or even feel with anyone else.
“I’m nervous,” I admit, and her expression softens.
“Ben, why?”
Because I want this.
Because I want YOU.
“Because I want you to have a good time,” I say. Still truthful, but not quite as bold as my initial thoughts.
Before Sadie can respond, our server returns to top off our wine glasses and drop off our appetizer—a serving of arguably the best fried green tomatoes in the entire South. And I know. I consider finding the best fried green tomatoes something of my own personal quest.
“I don’t know, Ben,” Sadie says, eying the dish. “I don’t have the same Southern roots that you do.”
