Besides, we’re here.
Here is a bus-sized wicker-floor patio with cushioned wicker chairs and tables with cheery blooms of red and orange hibiscus in vases in the center. It’s set in front of a tiny building emitting not just that literally mouthwatering smell but also conga drum music that has my hips twitching to shake.
The owner, a tanned bald man with a smile so white it’s almost painful to look at, strides up to us in a hibiscus-print purple and white button-up shirt, white knee-length denim shorts, and tan Birkenstocks.
“Reservation for Mr. Storm? Good to have you.” He turns around and gestures to us with a sun-spotted arm to follow. “Never before had someone booking the whole place.” He pauses to wink. “Less work for me.”
We sit at the table he gestures at, and as he wanders off, I look to Emerson. “You did what?”
He shrugs. “This place sits twenty tops. Wasn’t a big deal.”
“But you didn’t have to do that! And why?”
Another shrug of those big manly shoulders that I know look even better out of a shirt. “I wanted tonight to be special. Figured I owed you that at the very least.”
I eye him.
Is it messed up that when someone says exactly-to-the-word what I would’ve wanted them to, that my first instinct is to be suspicious?
Emerson’s already picking up the menu, completely oblivious of my scrutiny.
Typical boy.
For that matter, the only time he noticed that I changed my hair was when I went from black to pink.
“Thoughts?” he asks from his menu.
A long, searching look at mine, and all I can come up with is “Not sure.”
Emerson makes a dissatisfied noise. “Everything looks good is the damn problem. But what I’m smelling...”
“The lamb,” I agree with an excited nod.
“Hell yeah,” he agrees.
Our eyes meet.
“Great minds think alike,” he quips.
God, his eyes are pretty.
But not too pretty, like the star of some CW teen drama. Just the right blend of pretty and rugged, that baby blue color but narrowed atop high cheekbones. Like a Swedish model who might have had Viking ancestors.
His chair scrapes across the floor as he moves it right next to mine.
I have to laugh. “Seriously?”
He leans over to kiss into my ear. “Seriously.”
“We’re going to look like that couple?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Why not? Anyone you’re worried about making a bad impression on?”
“No,” I admit. “But...”
Emerson makes a face. “Most times I’ve been annoyed or weirded out by ‘that couple’, it’s because I’ve been feeling lonely or bad about something else. Otherwise, why the hell would I give a damn about someone else and their PDA?”
“But when it’s over the top, it’s just rude.” I scrunch up my nose. “Gross, even.”
“Okay, I’m not talking about fingering on the dance floor,” Emerson says with a chuckle. “But just a long hug, or sitting side by side at a restaurant? Who the hell cares?”
His easy smile brings mine as swiftly as a snap.
“You know, you’re right,” I tell him.
“I usually am,” he says offhandedly in a cocky voice that makes us both laugh.
“You two look like you’re having a good night,” the owner says, returning.
“We are.” I find myself feeling stupid with how much I mean it and how big my smile is.
Yep, we’re one of ‘those couples’, all right.
“I’m Bob, by the way,” the man continues. “Owned this place going on twenty years now, and I have to say, it’s rare I see two people in love like you two.”
Cue the awkward silence.
Because we are way far from saying ‘I love you’ to each other. We’re still at the point where we don’t even really talk about where or what we are, it’s so nebulous.
Close up, Bob smells like clean laundry.
Emerson clears his throat. “We’d like the lamb. Smells delicious.”
Bob nods his stubbled double chins judiciously. “It is delicious. I was making some for myself, actually, but I can have that be yours first. Shouldn’t be eating on the job, anyway.”
“You’re sure?” I ask.
But he’s already nodding, hurrying off. “Two lambs coming right up! With a lotta those grilled veggies!”
I look to Emerson, then beyond.
Clearly, I am starving, since as far as I can see, the setting sun has baked the sky into a rosy pastry. Every pinky-red line of the reflecting waves below could just as easily be a crease in the dough.
“Tell me more,” Emerson says suddenly, and I glance at him, startled.
His eyes are on the same rosy horizon, although his monotoned words are for me. “You were right before. I don’t really know you. But I want to.”
I aim an undecided smile at him, resisting the urge to fiddle with my fork. “And my reciting facts at you would change that?”
“Telling me more means reciting facts at me?” he returns easily.
“No,” I admit. “Though ‘tell me more’ is a vague request.”
He inclines his head in agreement. “Fine. Tell me more about you, your business, your dog.”