Brenna laid a hand over hers. “Honey, what are you afraid of?”
“Do you want the full list?” Sylvie scrubbed a hand over her face. “I’m…terrified. That this will be a disaster. That I’ll make a fool of myself. That Everett seems like this sweet, funny guy and he’ll turn out to be a jerk and a user. I just started to get back on my feet. And that was only through your help and some sacrifices I wish to God I hadn’t had to make. I can’t bear it if I have to go through all that again. I won’t survive it financially or emotionally.”
“That’s a lot to put on a first date, sweetie.”
“See?” Sylvie threw up her hands. “I’ve got some titanic trust issues, Brenna. Not just of men, but of myself. How can I trust my own judgment anymore?”
“Because you’re a smart woman. Yeah, you made an error in judgment. But continuing to punish yourself for that insults your intelligence. You won’t make the same mistake twice. If that means you date a guy for months before he ever even finds out where you live, that’s fine. But all that is something to deal with down the line. Tonight you only have to deal with one thing: What you’re going to wear to go have a pleasant evening with a potentially charming and funny guy.”
“But what if—”
“No.” Brenna held up a hand. “No what ifs allowed. Now you’re going to get dressed in something that makes you feel good, and I’m going to drive you to El Charro.”
“Don’t you have a date with Adam tonight?”
“Not until much later. He had to work. So I’m going to take you to the restaurant and check him out with you. If we get a creeper vibe, we’ll come home. Otherwise, you’re going in. And you’ll call me to come get you when you’re done unless you feel comfortable with him bringing you home. Okay?”
Sylvie tried to think of a way to argue against that plan and couldn’t think of a thing.
She was still thinking forty-five minutes later when Brenna whipped into a parking space with a view of the front door to El Charro and said, “Now, we wait.”
Sylvie wished for a fishbowl margarita. Surely that would make this more bearable.
“Hey, isn’t that him?” asked Brenna. “It looks like his picture at Perfect Chemistry.”
Sylvie zeroed in on a lanky figure hurrying across the parking lot. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, and she could only see him in profile, but the brown hair, the build, were right. As he turned his head to scan the parking lot, she sank down in her seat.
“Oh yeah, that’s him. And honey, you don’t have a thing to worry about.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at that sweater.”
Sylvie leaned forward and squinted to make out the pattern. “Are those…reindeer?”
“With fur on the collar! There is not a con man or tool alive who would be caught dead in that thing. Obviously you made the right decision going totally casual instead of little black dress knockout.”
“Bless his heart,” Sylvie murmured, feeling a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. How could she be intimidated by a guy wearing that?
Brenna folded her arms on the steering wheel and grinned. “Doesn’t that make you want to just snap him up and give him a what not to wear intervention?”
“I don’t know…it’s kind of adorable in a clueless sort of way.”
“Well, don’t just sit here. Get on in there and find out if his personality matches.”
~*~
The ring in Everett’s pocket seemed to have its own gravitational pull. He felt weighed down by it and half wondered why nobody seemed to notice him compulsively checking its presence. He wasn’t sure he could be more nervous if he were legitimately proposing, which was absolutely ridiculous. It was supposed to be a quick, impulsive act of kindness, over and done with. Now here he was, on Valentine’s Day of all days, waiting for a first date.
“Table for two,” he told the hostess.
The woman’s gaze flicked up, then down, seeming to linger on the bulge in his pocket.
Great, it is noticeable, Everett thought with disgust.
“Nice sweater,” she said, her lips twitching.
Shit. That confirmed his suspicions. He looked like a complete ass in this sweater. But he’d given his coat away to Adrian Henning, the down-on-his-luck accountant, who’d come into the office for help that afternoon. The man had lost his job and then had the added insult of losing everything he owned in a house fire the week before. The case had taken longer than he’d anticipated to sort out, making arrangements for a new apartment and furnishings for Henning and his young family, pulling strings to land him an interview the following week, so there’d been no time to run home to change or even shave. It was either freeze or make do with the horrendous sweater his mom had surprised him with at Christmas. He still wasn’t sure if the