We are led to a table in the corner. Barrett pulls out my chair for me to sit before taking his across from me. Our drink orders are taken, menus placed in front of us.
The place is beautiful, filled to near capacity, and I can feel the weight of the stares on my back. Barrett is sitting in the corner so he can see the entire room; I’m thankful I can’t.
“Your hand is shaking,” he says, lifting it off the table and planting a sweet kiss to the center of my palm. “Will you relax? Please?”
“I’m trying,” I whisper. “I just know they’re all talking about us right now.”
“I’m sure they are. Everyone always talks about the most beautiful girl in the room.”
My cheeks heating, I pull my hand away. “I thought I was prepared for this. When I would go places with my ex-husband, things like this would happen.”
“No offense, but I don’t really want to think about you at dinner with him.”
The grimace on his face makes me giggle.
“I’m not joking,” he says.
“I know. But I like that it bothers you. Call me crazy.”
“You’re crazy to think it wouldn’t,” he smiles.
Drinks are placed in front of us and we order off the menu. The server is a man, but that doesn’t stop him from flirting with Barrett.
Once we’re alone again, Barrett looks at me with a seriousness in his eye. “Are you happy?” he asks me.
I run my finger along the edge of my glass. “Yes. Why would you ask me that?”
He pulls at the collar of his shirt. “Because it’s the most important thing to me.”
The earnestness of his tone hits me right in the middle of my heart. My cheeks split with a smile and I mean every inch of it. “I feel like, for the first time in my life, things might be going where I want them to go.”
His hand drops to his lap and he takes a rough swallow. “Where’s that?”
“To being happy.”
“Do I make you happy, Alison?”
“Yes, you do.”
“I know this whole thing is hard for you, me being a politician. And sometimes . . .” he looks at the ceiling before finding my eyes again. “Sometimes I feel like I maybe pushed you into this and that makes me—”
“You didn’t push me into anything,” I interject. “Yes, maybe you were a little aggressive in your methods. But every choice I’ve made, including being with you, is one I made. Okay?”
He nods and looks around the room. “You have no idea how proud I am to be sitting here with you.” He looks at me again and takes my hand, holding it on top of the table. “You’ve made my life better. I just hope that your life is better because of it too.”
I think about it for a long minute before responding. “My life is harder with you in it.”
He tightens his grip on my hand, his eyes flickering with worry.
“It is, Barrett. I worry so much that things will go wrong. I stay up at night wondering if this has a chance to work out in the end. But,” I say, just as his mouth opens to speak, “I always come to the same conclusion: it has to. Because I can’t imagine not sitting here with you tonight or not getting your texts first thing in the morning. Regardless of how hard it is, it’s worth it.”
He starts to speak when the server approaches the table. “I’m sorry, sir. There’s a man at the bar, a Miles Monroe, that has asked that you speak with him for a minute.”
Barrett falls back in his chair and looks at me.
“Go if you need to,” I say, noting how sexy he looks when he’s on the verge of getting mad. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
“This is our date,” he grumbles.
“And you’re the mayor running for election. I can handle not being with you for a few minutes. I’ll just check on Hux. It’s fine.”
He stands and stops in front of me. He bends down, a sinful look on his face, and kisses me, letting our lips linger for a moment longer than necessary. When he pulls back he whispers against my mouth, “That should serve a few purposes. One, it will remind you of the things to come after we get out of here. Two, it should tell you how fucking gorgeous you look tonight. And three, it will make it clear to every person in here that we are together, like it or not.”
Before I can respond, he’s gone. My heart is pounding in my chest, my cheeks flushed from his kiss. If I sit too long and feel the stares of the other patrons, I’ll be a nervous wreck, so I pull my phone from my purse and send a quick text to my mom to check on Huxley. As soon as I hit send, a woman’s voice, breathy a la Marilyn Monroe, speaks from my side.
“You must be Alison,” she almost whispers.
I look up, her curvy body stuffed into a baby pink dress that must have cost more than my tuition this semester. I force a swallow and plaster on the practiced smile I’ve used many times over the past few years.