Parental Guidance (Ice Knights #1)(6)

Anchovy gave a happy woof as Gemma took possession of his leash. “Go, you are late.”

“You’re bossy,” Zara said, but she was already turning away.

“Takes one to know one,” Gemma said with a laugh. “Go.”

Without any other choice, she did. She hurried down Eighteenth Avenue, zipping past the tourists who insisted on slow rolling down the sidewalk. The Harbor City fall humidity—that always had a tinge of urine scent to it—had frizzed out her hair already. Not that she cared what her date thought of her, but getting a brush through it after it reached a certain level would be a nightmare. Determined not to let that happen, she wrapped her hair up in a bun, securing it with the elastic band always around her wrist, as she speed-walked through the ever-thickening crowd.

She was a half block away from her own personal Mt. Doom, AKA The Hummingbird Café, when she tried to pass a pair of tourists and her heel sank between the narrow slats of a metal grate. There was a half second of oh shit before she went down, her knees banging against the metal. Thank God she’d decided to go with the jeans she’d already been wearing or her knees would have been aching more than her twisted ankle.

“Oh my God, are you okay, honey?” one of the slow-moving tourists asked, her voice concerned.

Sucking in a deep breath, Zara blinked back the pain and started to get up. “I’m good.”

“Those shoes almost killed you,” said the other tourist, who going by his body language was married to the slow mover number one. “How y’all walk around in those things is beyond me.”

“I’ve been known to run in them.”

“Good for you, honey.” The woman reached out and offered her arm to help steady Zara as she stood on one foot and reached down to yank the embedded heel out of the grate. “Don’t listen to Steve. He’s been known to wear Crocs.”

It took the mother of all tugs, but Zara freed her shoe. “Thank you.”

“No worries,” the woman said. “Are you gonna be able to walk in that? It looks a little worse for wear.”

The stranger wasn’t wrong. The sides of the heel were all scratched up, but everything looked to still be attached. Finally, the fates might not be completely fucking with her.

“I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.” She slid the shoe on, making sure to stand on the sidewalk proper instead of the grate before letting go of the woman’s arm. “I’m meeting someone in the café.”

“Oh good, this city is too big to be alone in,” the woman said as she slipped her arm through the crook of her husband’s, and they turned and strolled down the block as the early evening pedestrian traffic swerved around them.

Even though her ankle ached as she limped toward the café, her mood almost improved with the knowledge that delicious carbs were only a block away. Her expectations for this date were lower than a Chihuahua’s stomach, but her excitement at a basket of never-ending breadsticks was at peak levels. A woman had to have priorities.

Once inside, she made a beeline to the hostess stand—well, as much as she could with her current injury. She scanned the restaurant. Lots of guys who looked like they used too much cologne and spent half their paychecks on hair products.

“Just one?” the hostess asked as she picked up a menu.

“I’m meeting someone,” Zara said, heat rising in her cheeks at having to say the words out loud. “His name’s Caleb.”

“Oh yeah.” The hostess fanned her face. “He’s already here, and let me tell you, you’re a lucky woman. He’s right”—the hostess pointed across the restaurant to a table in the back—“over there.”

Zara followed the woman’s direction and froze.

Her date definitely fell into the broad-shouldered, muscular, giant category but was saved from being too damn perfect by a nose that looked like it had decided to go in one direction and then had changed its mind at the last minute. However, there was no denying it. Her date was hot, not in a male-model way but in a superhero movie villain way—like Loki if he had a gym membership and actually used it.

The water she’d downed before leaving the house sloshed around in her stomach. There was no turning around in the middle of her holy-shit-what-was-I-thinking panic. “Are you sure?”

The hostess nodded. “Said his name was Caleb and he was meeting a date.”

Why was she doing this? Zara pressed her hand to her stomach in a vain attempt to calm herself and grabbed ahold of her sense of self-control with both hands. Sure, it was a white-knuckle grip, but she had a plan. The fact that her date was hot didn’t change anything. She was in it for the invite and her dad’s SAG card. She could do this.

Like a brave but tragic movie heroine about to get her head whacked off by a guillotine, Zara lifted her chin, stood up, and braced her shoulders.

“Hey, Caleb,” the hostess hollered across the small restaurant. “What’s your date’s name?”

A flash of embarrassed heat blasted up from Zara’s toes, strong enough that she was surprised flames didn’t engulf every individual freckle on her face (and there were enough of them that if someone squinted, she’d look like she actually had a tan for the first time in her life). And just when it seemed like it couldn’t get any worse, her date stood up and crossed the café. What would have taken her a minute with her beyond-short legs, he cleared in all of about five strides. He stopped near the hostess stand, and his gaze went lower and lower until it finally dropped enough to be level with her face. His smile faltered and then flattened before he seemed to recover with an upward curl of his lips that looked as practiced as it was insincere.