I try not to think about that as the maître d’ leads me through the dimly lit main floor, to a round banquette of soft ivory leather. Ashton waits there, his coppery hair combed back and brushing the collar of his expensive suit jacket. He rises with a broad smile, takes my hands and kisses my cheek. “I almost gave up on you.”
I wish you would. I physically bite my tongue to keep from saying it. “I’m sorry. I got turned around on the way here.”
He frowns as we slide into our seats. “You drove yourself?”
“Mmhm,” I affirm through my closed lip smile.
“You shouldn’t have.” His concern is infantilizing and infuriating.
“Why not?” I tilt my head and pick up the wine list that was left for us on the table. There’s a reason I drove myself tonight: the car is a good excuse not to go home with
