Chapter 6

Marie’s POV

I've changed my shirt four times and I'm still not sure I like the one I'm wearing.

"It's a date, not a deposition," I tell my reflection, and my reflection does not look convinced.

I don't examine too closely why my hands won't stop being unsteady, or why some small, traitorous part of me keeps replaying a bed frame and a missing bolt and the exact half-second before a door slammed downstairs and ruined everything. That's yesterday's problem. Today I have a nice, uncomplicated dinner with a nice, uncomplicated man, and I intend to enjoy it.

Tristan picks me up at seven, in a truck that smells like cedar and leather, and for a second when I open the door he just looks at me — actually looks, like he wasn't expecting it — before he catches himself.

"Wow. Okay." He clears his throat, a little pink around the ears. "You look really good, Marie. I mean — you always look