Say You'll Remember Me(48)

“Yes.”

“And you brought me flowers?”

“I did.”

“This is not a date,” I said.

“I am aware.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Then why are you bringing me gifts?”

“I brought pastries to Mike’s place last week. Was that a date?”

I gave him a look.

“Should I call him?” he said. “Break the news to him that we’re going out now? Because of the croissants?”

I crossed my arms. “Stop.”

“I brought flowers to Jesse’s mom on Mother’s Day. Was that a date too?”

“STOP.”

Amusement etched the corner of his mouth.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. They’re not date pastries or flowers—I just want to be clear.”

He gave me a head tilt of acknowledgment so I took his Not A Romantic Gesture gifts and went to the sink to fill a vase with water.

He walked in behind me.

Pooter came running and scaled him, meowing like he was made out of catnip. He picked her up and scratched under her chin. My kitten immediately started purring. Xavier sat with her on my mattress and smiled at her, talking softly to her in that way that hypnotized memory care patients, animals, and social media managers alike.

I stood there looking at him, momentarily dazed.

The sight of this man on my bed made heat drop to my traitorous core. Like, literally how dare my vagina betray me like this. The audacity.

“How is she doing?” he asked, talking to me but looking at my cat.

I snapped out of it. “Great.”

“You got a mattress,” he said, looking up at me.

“Yes,” I said, setting the flowers on my nightstand.

He peered around and smiled at the lava lamp. Then he saw his hoodie draped on my chair and he paused for a moment looking at it before coming back to me and slipping into one of his contemplative gazes.

I gazed back, looking at his mouth because apparently I really was that obvious.

I loved the way he kissed. I missed it. I wished we’d done more of it back when kissing was a thing we were doing.

As if he knew what I was thinking, he kissed Pooter on the head. I had never been so jealous of a kitten.

Ugh, this was such a bad idea.

I cleared my throat. “Where are we going?” I asked.

“I got us six thirty reservations at Castaway.”

I blinked at him in surprise. “How? They’re always booked up.”

He set Pooter on the bed and stood. “You’ve been there?”

“Yeah, of course.”

He nodded. “I must have gotten lucky. Maybe a party of two canceled?”

“Huh.” I put a thumb over my shoulder. “Well, we should probably go, then.”

I think he wanted to hug me. I could see it in his eyes, like he was weighing whether to lean in. I grabbed my purse and headed for the door before he could hold me in his warm embrace two feet from a very convenient bed. I was strong, but even I had limits.

He jogged ahead of me in the driveway and opened the car door for me.

I was getting in when I heard a tiny tapping. I looked down to see my brother staring at me through the basement window by the washing machine grinning like a gremlin at my Not A Date opening doors for me. I narrowed my eyes and got in.

My cell phone pinged as we backed out into the street.

TRISTAN: I’m making my appointment.



I texted back in all caps. IT’S NOT A DATE.

Xavier glanced at me. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my phone away. “Just my brother being annoying.”

“He’s talking to you again?”

“Yeah. I think I liked it better when he wasn’t.”

He smiled.

“So how have you been?” he asked, making a right out of the neighborhood.

I shrugged. “Good. We’re remodeling the house. Murkle’s is coming up with a Dijon so I’ve been busy with that.”

“Really? When does it launch?”

“November.”

“I’ll have to get some,” he said. “I was wondering what to get the guys for Christmas.”

I looked out the window so he wouldn’t see how big this made me smile.

“Dijon actually makes excellent stocking stuffers,” I said. “Did you know that Dijon mustard was created in 1856 by a guy named Jean who lived in Dijon, France? They used to make it with verjuice. I had to google it, it’s the green juice of unripe grapes. Now we use white wine instead. So much better.”

He didn’t reply so I had to look at him. He was grinning.

“What?” I said.

“I’ve just missed hearing about mustard.”

“Ha.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “So what have you been up to?” I asked.

“Working. Oh, I had a patient I thought you’d like.” He nodded at his cell on the center console. “Open my phone. My password’s 4028.”

I eyed him. “You’re giving me your password?”

He glanced at me. “Yeah. Why not?”

“What if I Venmo myself five thousand dollars?”

“Do you need five thousand dollars?”