And that you refuse to treat children.

“Okay, so Rita told me a little. But that’s not why I want to have dinner with you.”

She leaned back, slipping her hand from under mine, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I think you’re a really sweet guy, but you should know I’m completely emotionally unavailable.”

“No, you’re not,” I replied nonchalantly, reaching for her hand again.

She dodged my touch. “Oh, I’m not?”

“You aren’t emotionally unavailable. You’re emotionally closed off. Those are two totally different things.”

She scoffed. “You don’t know me.”

After quickly sliding out of the booth, I swung around until I was sitting next to her.

“Wh…what are you doing?” she stammered, scooting over.

I followed her until her back hit the wall. Her leg was crooked up on the bench between us, so I slid my arm across the back of her seat and leaned forward until our upper bodies were mere inches apart. Her breathing sped, and my heart raced.

“I know you better than you think.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but I didn’t let her get a word in edgewise.

“You smile for people because it makes them comfortable, but it makes you feel like a fraud. You go through the motions of living but only so people will stop asking if you’re doing okay. You laugh to remind yourself that you can still physically make the sound, even though you’re so fucking numb you don’t feel it. And you keep to yourself not because you like to be alone, but rather because you’re the only person who truly understands.”

Her mouth fell open and a soft gasp hitched her breath. “How…how do you know that?”

I finally gave in to the urge and tucked a strand of her soft, silky hair behind her ear. Then I cupped her cheek. “Because they’re the same goddamn things I do every day.”

She swallowed hard and then cut her eyes off to the side. “And let me guess. You want to sit around and commiserate with me because you think we both have issues? I guarantee you we’re not as similar as you think.”

“I know. And I assure you I have zero interest in commiserating with you. I wouldn’t understand your demons any more than you would understand my personal circle of hell.”

Her sad eyes flicked back to mine. “Then what do you want?”

I sucked in a deep breath that did nothing to calm the eternal storm brewing within me. “Just a little company in the darkness. No questions. No judgments. No faking it.”

Her mouth fell open, and anxiety painted her face.

It was risky, coming on to her like that. Of all the fucked-up people I’d met over the last few years, only about a quarter of them knew they were fucked up.

My chest tightened as I waited for her reaction. There was no middle ground when you cornered a woman like that. She was going to either explode into an angry fury or melt into my arms. I prayed for the latter, but the former wouldn’t stop me. Determination was like that. And, when it came to Charlotte Mills, determination was my middle name.

Nervously, I licked my lips, and much to my elation, her gaze dropped at the action.

Victory was within my reach.

She couldn’t heal me. And I couldn’t heal her.

But sometimes, when the overwhelming weight of gravity had you pinned to the Earth, two hours of simple conversation with no pressure to pretend was the only reprieve people like us were ever going to get.

Gliding my thumb over her bottom lip, I ordered on a low rumble, “Dinner, Charlotte. Say yes.”

* * *

With shaky hands, I smoothed my black blouse down. No freaking clue what the material was or the shape to describe it. But it was sleeveless, not a scrub top, and it made me look like I had boobs. The trifecta of amazing when it came to my wardrobe.

On a breathy sigh, I’d agreed to dinner with Porter.

No questions.

No judgments.

No faking it.

The word no hadn’t been in my vocabulary after an offer like that. It’d felt like I’d been waiting my entire life for someone to give me that out.

Just a little company in the darkness.

My heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d slid into my side of the booth. His large body pressed against mine as those daunting, blue eyes had held me captive. My lids fluttered closed as I remembered the heat from his palm on my face, his fingerprints branding me.

After I’d left the hospital, I’d promptly gone to the mall and burned a hole in my debit card. Twelve tops I hadn’t bothered trying on—all of which were black, only one of which (the one I was wearing) fit—and two pairs of black pants—both of which fit, only one of which made my ass look good (hence why I was wearing those)—later, I’d gone home. The nerves were nearly paralyzing when I pulled into my driveway. I had two hours before I was supposed to meet Porter. If I stuck to my normal getting-ready routine, that meant I had one hour—and forty-five minutes to talk myself out of going. Throwing the car in reverse, I headed back to the mall to see if the hair place could squeeze me in for a blowout.

They did. It looked incredible. Which meant my simple-splash-of-makeup face looked like shit. So I swung by the MAC counter on the way out.

By the time I walked through the heavy wooden doors at The Porterhouse, I looked like a new woman. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as easy to dress the inside of me up to match. I wanted to be there. To see Porter again. But old habits were hard to break. I’d mentally stockpiled at least a dozen excuses for why I had to leave before our salads. (Okay, fine! Two of them would enable me to make a break for it before we’d even ordered drinks.)

The moment I heard his deep, gravelly voice, I knew I’d wasted my time.

“Charlotte,” he greeted behind me as I stood at the busy hostess stand, waiting for my turn.

Whirling around, I found him prowling toward me, a smile on his face, unmistakable heat in his eyes.

My stomach dipped as I raked my gaze down his body. Porter was tall, probably around six-three, and while he didn’t carry a suit of muscle, his every curve was toned and hard. His built shoulders strained against the confinement of his white button-down. And, with his sleeves rolled up, stopping below his elbow, his powerfully veined forearms were on full display. He’d been attractive at the hospital. But, God, he was in an entirely different category now.

“Jesus,” he breathed, stopping in front of me. “You…are stunning.”

His hands landed on my hips as he dipped to kiss my cheek.

“Hi,” I whispered, peeking up at him.

He grinned. “Hi.”

We silently stared at each other for several seconds as the waiting crowd carried on around us. I was more content in that quiet moment than I had been in years.

No questions.

No judgments.

No faking it.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, releasing my hips, and backing away a step.

The absence was staggering.

I swallowed hard. “I’m excited to see where you order cocktail napkins.”

He chuckled. “Smartass.”

After grabbing a menu from behind the hostess stand, he placed a hand on my lower back and led me through the restaurant. I had to give it to him; The Porterhouse was a sight to be seen. Tall booths lined the walls, while rustic, distressed tables created an aisle down the center. At the back, it T’d off to the left and the right, revealing smaller, slightly more secluded rooms. Brass lanterns with flickering candles adorned the tables, while the bright, white plates and shiny silverware gave it a classic Southern elegance.

Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who thought the place was amazing. Every table was full and dozens of waiters and waitresses bustled around us.

With a sweeping hand, Porter motioned toward an open booth.

“This place is incredible,” I said, sliding in on one side.

“Thanks. I’ll let Tanner know you think so.” He shrugged sheepishly and placed the menu in front of me. “I lost the Ninja Warrior course the day we competed for the ambiance. If it had been up to me, we’d have paper tablecloths and crayons.”

I laughed softly and set my purse beside me.

Tilting my head up, I saw him staring at me, a one-sided grin lighting his face.