I twirl a strand of fettuccine around my fork, coating it in a rich vodka sauce before taking a bite. The fresh taste of tomatoes and cream explodes on my tongue, and I close my eyes in contentment. Il Trattoria knows how to make a luscious plate of food.

When I open my eyes I catch my date, Brandon, staring at my lips. A blush spreads across my cheeks and I clear my throat. “So, um, you said you did project management?”

Brandon nods. “Yep, not too much to talk about there.” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “But I want to hear more about your business.”

I’ll bet he does. Since the moment I made the mistake of saying I own a lube company, Brandon’s looked at me like I’m God’s gift to the state of Massachusetts. And by gift I mean sex toy.

I wave away the question. “You know, it’s probably like any online business. The kind of product doesn’t really matter.”

“I don’t know about that. ”

Under the table he bumps his legs against mine. I inch back and cross my legs, regretting the low-cut black dress I selected tonight. Where had I gone wrong? Abby and I had both scanned Brandon’s Tinder profile for red flags and come up empty. There were no self-indulgent shirtless pictures or bro-y quotes. He’d said he liked Faulkner, for chrissakes.

“If it’s a bad product, no one’s going to buy it.”

“True,” I admit.

“So it’s a good lube then?”

I don’t want to play into whatever weird fantasy is scrolling through his mind, but I do need to be my own champion. “Of course it is.” I already know Brandon won’t be getting a goodnight kiss tonight, but I’m still determined to have a good time. I take another bite of my fettuccine because that, at least, is still working for me.

Brandon doesn’t even bother to pull his eyes away from my cleavage. “Maybe you can give me a free sample.”

Nope, not even my food can salvage this train wreck of a date. I sigh and set down my fork. Before I can retort, Il Trattoria’s front door opens with a jingle. I suck in a breath as I catch sight of the woman giving her name to the hostess. It’s none other than Mrs. Keaton.

Oh god.

I duck my head, pulling a curtain of hair over my face and trying to ignore the look Brandon gives me. Oh shit, shit, shit.

I thought picking a restaurant two towns over for my date would give me some measure of anonymity, but it looks like I thought wrong. The worst part of it, though, isn’t that I’m out to eat with Brandon while Mrs. Keaton saw me and a shirtless Jackson together just a few weeks ago. The worst part of it isn’t even that it’s a shitty date with a dude who turned lecherous the second the mention of sex came up. No—the worst part of it is I’m not here as Natalie. Tonight I’m supposed to be Delilah Overbrook. If Mrs. Keaton finds out, there’s no telling who she’ll blab to. My business will be over before it even starts.

Tears rise in my throat and I swallow them down. I wanted, for just one night, to live like the person I’m trying to become. I guess this is what I get for trying to escape the small-town stranglehold Swan’s Hollow has on me.

I risk a glance over Brandon’s shoulder and watch Mrs. Keaton light up as she recognizes me. She’s five feet four inches of unadulterated social power. Beside her, Mr. Keaton practically cowers.

Mrs. Keaton wraps her pashmina around her shoulders and raises a hand in greeting. The blood drains from my face as I watch her thread her way through the tables. I have to stop this. Now.

I scrape my chair back from the table and toss down cash for my portion of the check.

“Is that our cue to leave?” Brandon asks, halfway to his feet.

I pull down the hem of my dress and scowl at him. “Just because I happen to own a business and just because that business happens to be about pleasure doesn’t mean I’m going to sleep with you tonight. Better luck with your next date.”

I stomp away to intercept the Dark Angel of Gossip.

I catch Mrs. Keaton by the elbow three tables away from my seat. “Mrs. Keaton, hi.” I nod my head at her husband. “Mr. Keaton.” Next to his overeager wife, his smile appears genuine and warm.

I position myself so that the two of them need to turn their backs on Brandon to look at me. “What a lovely pashmina.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Keaton coos. “So funny seeing you here.”

I let out a strangled chuckle. "Well, you can’t keep me away from good Italian food. And Papa Gino’s hardly counts.”

“Smart choice,” she says conspiratorially. “Did you know Papa Gino’s was one food handling violation away from a citation last month?”

I shake my head.

“Seriously, honey. I’ve got it on good record from the health inspector. Do not trust the pepperoni.”

What did Mr. Keaton ever see in her to make him propose? Maybe he took the path of least resistance. Better to be with her than against her.

Behind Mrs. Keaton, Brandon levers himself up as if to follow me. I make a show of checking the time on my cell phone and give an apologetic shrug. “Darn, I’m sorry I can’t stay longer. Can you fill me in next time we speak?”

Mrs. Keaton presses her lips together and shrugs. “Whatever you say, Natalie.”

Her eyes bore into my back as I leave.