“This feels friendly,” she whispers.
“Well, I know about the cherry and elephants. And you know I wear flannels to bed—only I don’t. So I guess all that’s left is to decide if you’ll go to dinner with a single dad who doesn’t wear a kilt.”
“What did you have in mind?” She leans her head back, giving me access to brush my lips along her neck. As I dot slow kisses from her shoulder to her ear, she covers my hands with hers, lacing our fingers together.
I don’t know why this feels so easy.
So fated.
So unavoidable.
“A patio with a view, good wine, an insane amount of appetizers, and dessert even when we’re stuffed.”
She turns her head, smiling as my mouth finds hers. Her hand presses to my cheek. It’s slow like us.
Destination unknown.
Fortuity.
When she pulls back, I take a minute to remind myself she is my here and now. An experience. A beautiful memory in the making. She’s not Daisy or Jenna. I will leave. She will stay. And that’s okay.
“You had me at good wine.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gracelyn
It’s not an ocean view. It’s a breathtaking garden with floral covered trellises, secluded tables adorned with candles, good wine, and appetizers that look like works of art.
“You do well.”
“Well?” Nate refills my wine glass.
“The menu didn’t have prices. I know what that means.”
A hint of sadness steals his expression. “I did fine—but not until I was much older and secured a job as an anatomy professor at the university. I told you about my hand-me-down skates. Jenna had money. Family money.”
I take a sip of wine. “I almost had money.”
He grins. “All but the Powerball number?”
“If only … That’s still good money, though … all the numbers but the Powerball.” I laugh. “No. I had two opportunities to not live paycheck to paycheck. As soon as I finished my undergrad for med school, I dropped out. Then I was seconds from saying ‘I do’ to Michael, president of an investment firm in Boise. I like living on the edge. Savings accounts and IRAs bore me.”
“So boring.” He spoons more food onto my plate. I’m stuffed and we’re still on appetizers. “I grew up poor, but my mom had an affair with a rich man. My goals were to not ever be so poor that I wasn’t sure if I’d have three meals a day, but not so rich that I’d sleep with another man’s wife—like morals and decency didn’t apply to me.”
My nose wrinkles. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine. She came back. Things worked out. It’s a small scar compared to other events like losing my best friend at such a young age.”
“Sorry,” I repeat.
“No. Please … let me change the subject. I’m not at all looking for sympathy. I’m just …” He shakes his head. “Oversharing.”
“Not oversharing. I’m asking all the wrong questions. Not that I’m implying there is such a thing as too much information in a relationship, but ours is different. Maybe we save the heavy stuff for pen pal status …” I tap my fork on my lower lip. “That is … if I make pen pal status, which really should be email status. However, I kinda dig the old-fashioned handwritten letter, envelope, and stamp. The forced patience that comes with snail mail. The race to the mailbox to see if you’ve received a letter. I can’t remember the last time I waited for something with any sort of anticipation that wasn’t coming from Amazon.”
“Well …” He sighs and shrugs. “I hope you make it that far.”
“Me too, but I’ve suffered worse disappointment in my life. So don’t think that you can lord this over me. I won’t be asking for your address.”
His eyebrows inch up his head. “There you go again … making crazy assumptions. It would be a P.O. box, not my actual address. I imagine you could cross the line into a stalker.”
“Says the creepy guy who watches me out his window.”
He points his knife at me for a few seconds before cutting through a candied Brussel sprout. “I can’t figure out why you don’t change your clothes at work.”
“It’s a hairy place.” I divert my gaze to my plate. “Just … so much hair circulating in the air. It’s just better to do it right before going inside.”
“But you’re riding in your vehicle.”
“I cover the seat.”
“But—”
“Seriously? Am I really getting the third degree over this when you clearly seem to enjoy my current stripping protocol?”
“True. It’s rather titillating.”
“You mean arousing.” I peek up at him.
“Possibly.”
Over the next two hours, we finish only a fraction of the food ordered, get a sack full of leftovers to go, and take the long way home because it’s an enjoyable night and the breeze feels so intoxicating.
“Don’t fuck up my streak.”
I whip my head toward him just before getting out of the car after we pull into the driveway.