Dates? As in plural? That’s a good sign. I try to keep my face blank, but she must see something hiding there, because she sighs.
“Keep it in your pants, okay?”
“Happy to,” I promise, offering her my arm. I’m already dreaming up all the things I can do to her with my pants on. I don’t mind being generous.
“I don’t like the look on your face,” she says, but she loops her arm through mine, anyway. “So, where are we going?”
“Guess.”
“Hennie’s,” she says.
“As much as I will live and die for hot chicken,” I say, “—and I will—I thought something more romantic might be in order.”
“I thought we were going to talk.” She stops in the middle of the Eaton’s lobby so abruptly that a bellhop nearly runs over her with a baggage cart.
“We are.” I tug her forward, calling an apology to the guy who’s collecting suitcases from the floor and shoving them back on the cart.
“About you,” she says, “not us.”
“There’s not a me without you,” I say without thinking. She stops again and I turn to her. Cupping her face in my palm, I look into her green eyes. “I’m really trying here. I promise.”
Uncertainty flickers across her face, but she finally nods. “Okay, let’s go, but it better be neutral territory.”
“It doesn’t get more neutral,” I promise her, closing my free hand over the one hooked around my elbow. Neutral or not, she’s not getting away again.
It’s a typical, sultry summer night in Nashville. Neon signs glow under the waxing sun. There’s still a couple of hours until sunset, but the light has already begun to fade to the rosy glow of twilight as we drive away from the city and towards Valmont.
“Neutral territory?” she says with a raised eyebrow when we pass the first mile marker.
“There’s not a lot places in Tennessee that are neutral for us,” I remind her. If I was doing this perfectly, I would take her out to the far reaches of Windfall’s grounds like we did on our first picnic. That’s not going to happen. I’m not going to risk going anywhere near her family estate at the moment. Besides, the last time we did that, we rode horses, which Adair doesn’t do anymore. The thought jogs my memory. “Why don’t you ride anymore?”
“There was an accident,” she says tersely, suddenly taking an intense interest in the scenery outside.
“You said that.” I wait for more of an explanation when she doesn’t continue, I add, “If you don’t want to talk about it.”
“I don’t.” I can tell by her tone that she means it.
Apparently, Adair can demand all sorts of information about me, but I’m not allowed to ask about something that changed her life dramatically. “I just remember how much you loved to ride horses. Do you miss it?”
“I try not to think about it.” She turns to me and reaches for my hand. “Can we drop it? It’s not a good memory and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
“Why does that matter?” I ask.
“Because you’ll try to fix it for me,” she says, “like you always do, and this can’t be fixed, which only makes it worse. I did something stupid—-really stupid—and I can’t take it back. That’s all you need to know.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” I say, squeezing her hand. She falls so silent afterwards that I nearly drive off the road turning my attention to her. Her face is stricken—white as a magnolia petal—and the moment our eyes meet, she blinks and shakes the look off her face.
“It’s worth a lot,” she says at last.
“But it doesn’t change anything,” I guess. “Okay, happier topic. Have you figured out where we’re going yet?”
“You really aren’t going to tell me?” She twists in her seat and turns wide eyes on me.
“No. You’ll see.”
“What if I guess?” she asks.
“You haven’t exactly been playing that game.”
“We’re going to Valmont but not Windfall, so the quad? Or to Market Street for dinner?”
I grin. “Terrible guesses. I want somewhere private, but neutral,” I add quickly. “Besides, I already have dinner.” I hitch my thumb to the back seat.
Adair peeks into the back and spots my carefully prepared picnic basket. “A picnic? Is that a good idea?”
“The weather’s right.”
“It’s hot as hell,” she says in disbelief.
“It’s cooling off.” I dismiss her concern, because I know the real reason she’s against the idea. A picnic might take place in neutral territory, but there’s a good chance we’ll wind up alone.
“You’re the worst,” she says as if guessing my thoughts.
“No, Lucky, I’m an opportunist,” I tell her, turning the car down a narrow lane.
“Wait, where are we going for this picnic?” She looks out the window and groans when she processes the scenery outside. “You’re shameless.”
“It’s a public place. Outdoors. Suuuuuper neutral.”
“Little Love isn’t what I had in mind,” she says dryly.
“You only said neutral,” I remind her.
“You're shameless.” Despite her objections, her hand stays warm and soft in mine as the car climbs up the winding road to the highest point in Valmont.
Little Love is named after its much more impressive cousin Love Circle, which overlooks the whole of Nashville. Love Circle is a spectacular spot for seeing the entire city, the kind of place where someone is always proposing marriage or taking couple’s portraits. That means it’s not exactly off the beaten track.
Little Love, on the other hand, looks out over Valmont University. During the academic year, couples visit it for slightly more debauched reasons. It’s a place to get away from your roommate or smoke pot. But right now Valmont is between summer sessions, and hardly anyone sticks around for classes during the summer, anyway. That means there won’t be many people here. Not only will it get me alone with Adair, it also will make certain the wrong people don’t hear something they shouldn’t. Adair wants to know about the past few years? Fine. But I can’t take the chance that Noah Porter is around,
