130. Rosalyn

ONE HUNDRED THIRTY

ROSALYN

My wide-legged jeans swoosh around my feet, hiding my ankle brace, as I step into the restaurant.

Nathan said it was a nice farm-to-table place but that jeans were perfectly acceptable. He wore a pair too, with a black T-shirt, so I believed him. But I still do a quick visual sweep of the dining room to confirm he was telling the truth.

The place has that vibe that's hard to explain. Like everyone looks rich, but they're all dressed in plain clothes. The kind that cost just as much as the flashy designer brands, only they wouldn't dare put a logo across their purse.

Glad I wore my fancier white shirt with the flowy arms, I press my plain leather clutch to my side.

Nathan leads us to the hostess station. "We're here for the Waller reservation."

The smile the young hostess gives him is nothing short of adoration, and I get it.

I look at him like that too.

"The rest of your party is already seated," she tells him, not even glancing at me. "I'll lead you back. "

We follow her through the dimly lit dining room. The Edison bulbs fit the renovated farmhouse aesthetic, and I'm too busy looking around at the decor to notice the table she's leading us to until we're stopping before it.

And the four people seated there.