"You know," I say, trying to sound casual. "I don’t usually go out with someone so quickly. Especially when it’s a complete stranger. This is a first for me."
Thomas lifts his hand and moves slowly, as if he doesn't want to scare me off. He lightly traces the back of my hand with one finger. I shiver.
"The first time is always the best," he says in a low voice. It's like velvet caressing my skin.
I clear my throat, shaking my head, trying to get rid of the heat that's come with his touch.
"You speak with a slight accent," I say. I have to get the topic onto something safe. I'm not sure why it isn't safe right now, but I feel bare. "I can’t place it."
Thomas smiles and removes his hand. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. He looks around the restaurant. All the tables are filled, and a soft murmur provides the soundtrack for the evening, laced with soft music emanating from invisible speakers.
"I come from a small country perched on the border between France and Germany. It’s called Elanda."
"Oh, I’ve heard of it," I say.
He blinks at me. I can't tell what he's thinking.
"Are your parents here, too, or are you the only one?"
He shakes his head. "I’ve come here to study. My family is still in Elanda, waiting for me."
"Are you going back, soon?" I ask. I watch him lick his lips, his tongue darting out.
"My parents are hard to please," he says.
I chuckle. "Aren’t they all?"
He smiles at me, and he seems to relax a bit.
"So, you’re completely… what… Elanden? Is that your nationality?"
He's still smiling. He shakes his head. "We don’t label ourselves. We're a small country, but we see ourselves as the only country that matters."
"That’s a very absolute way of thinking," I say.
Thomas glances at me. Again, I can't read his expression. When I met him, he was charming and arrogant. Tonight, I can't place him at all.
"It’s open to interpretation," he says. "Sometimes it takes a little bit of distance to understand how something works, even if it’s been under your nose your whole life."
I nod. "Very philosophical."
He grins at me. "I don’t talk about home often. I prefer to be in the now."
He glances down at my hand on the table. I move it into my lap.
"Tell me about your life at boarding school, then," I say.
He chuckles. "So many questions."
I shrug. "To know, one must ask."
"You’re very intelligent, aren’t you?"
I blush. It's a question, but he says it as a statement. I’ve been called pretty or beautiful, and it flatters me. I’ve been called hot, and it's charming. But calling me intelligent is sure to win me over.
"I like to pursue knowledge," I say.
He nods. "And get to know people, I gather."