“Oh, come on, I noticed you watching me. And you got all quiet. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re overthinking something.”

I let out a little laugh, surprised that he’s somehow picked up on yet another one of my habits. On the one hand, I can’t believe he’s so in tune with me already that he’d notice something like that, but on the other, I’m glad he is. A lot of people in my life are interested in what I’m doing, but it often feels like it’s because they have their own agenda.

There’s not a doubt in my mind that my mother and my father care about me, but lately it’s felt like they’re only paying attention to what’s going on in my life because they care more about seeing me become a lawyer and get married—preferably to someone well-off and “worthy” of me, whatever that means—than they care about how I’m actually doing. Aaron is obviously angling hard for the job, and as our less-than-comfortable dinner earlier proved to me, he’s much more interested in how I’d complement him than being with me for me.

But Declan isn’t like that at all.

He’s refreshingly genuine, like he’s here spending time with me because he really wants to be, not because he’s trying to butter me up for anything or get something out of me other than getting to know me. It’s both exhilarating and terrifying to be seen so clearly. There’s no denying I’m attracted to him—I couldn’t even if I tried—but that attraction freaks me out too because it feels like the more I give in to it, the more dangerous this thing between us gets.

I can’t keep toeing this line forever, because I know eventually one of us is going to do something to screw it up.

“See what I mean?” He cocks his head to one side. “You got all quiet again.”

“Oh. Um…” I clear my throat. “I was just going to thank you for saving me from a bad dinner, that’s all.”

He gives me a smile that makes my stomach flip. “Anytime. Glad I could be of help.”

Mercifully, the bartender returns with our drinks and slides them across the table to us, saving me from myself. I take a much-needed sip and smile as it tingles down the back of my throat.

“Are we ready to order, or do you still need a few minutes?” the bartender asks.

“I’m ready if you are,” Declan says, and I nod, so he gestures for me to go ahead.

“I’ll have the chicken tenders, please.”

“Excellent choice. What kind of dip do you want for those?”

“Honey mustard.”

“And are fries okay?”

“They’re perfect,” I tell the bartender and pass him my menu.