“So, where should we go to celebrate?” Warren asks, snapping me out of my thoughts and making me wonder if I missed something.
“We’re celebrating?”
“Your new design job for Mrs McGinn, and your venture into upcycled wedding gowns.”
Oh, well. Celebrating does sound fun. Way more fun than breaking up with Warren and slinking back to my own place. And really, we’re not even really dating, so breaking up with him feels super, super melodramatic, right?
Right.
I can always worry about the future later. What is time even? Irrelevant really. Except in sports. Time seems to be important in sports, even I know that.
Plus… the only things I’ve ever really celebrated are my birthday and the occasional holiday. But celebrating a great thrift haul? New jobs? Success? I’ve never done that. I’ve never given myself permission, always feeling like my successes weren’t worthy of celebration, I suppose.
Or maybe I’ve never had anyone who cared enough to want to celebrate with me.
But it feels nice. Warm.
And strangely date-like, no matter what I tell myself.
“I don’t really know what’s around here,” I finally say, for lack of a better answer.
“How do you feel about Italian food?” Warren asks. “I know a place that does a great Italian brunch.”
My eyes light up. Besides dessert, pasta and bread are my two favorite food groups. “Sweet Lord.” I make a big show of fanning myself with my hand. “‘Italian brunch’ might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Warren smiles with a small shake of his head, as if he’s not entirely sure how to react to my teasing. “Guess I should work on that,” he says, flicking on the turn signal before making a left out of the subdivision.
God help me if he gets any sexier.
The restaurant that Warren picks is called MezzaNotte, and it’s apparently the real fucking deal. I’m talking crisp white tablecloths and the best bread with olive oil I’ve ever tasted. They also have both a wine list and a dessert wine list. Which, to be honest, I hadn’t realized I was missing in my life until today.
And you know what they say? Carpe diem! Seize the day. Wait, I’m not sure that’s Italian. Well, whatever. You miss all the shots you don’t take and all the wine you don’t drink.
What? We’re celebrating. How many chances does a girl get to celebrate with the governor? A sexy one, not an old one in an ill-fitting suit.
Not many, I’d guess.
Plus, the way he keeps looking at me, combined with the fact that he actually seems interested in me and what I do for a living… it’s doing things to me. If this wasn’t a family restaurant, I might just drag him off to the bathroom right now.
But it’s more than that. Because this is definitely a date.
Right?
I half-expect him to try to pull a Lady and the Tramp move on me, that’s how date-y it is.
And if it is a real date, meaning a date where no one can see us so it wouldn’t make any sense to fake it, then does that mean that Warren cares about me?
My head’s spinning at the thought. Or maybe that’s the wine.
He sips his wine as he watches me over the glass.
“Thank you again,” I say. “For arranging today.”
“I enjoyed it,” he says, not breaking eye contact. “I like watching you in your element.”
“You’ve seen me in my shop.”
“No, I mean, talking to Mrs McGinn. You know your stuff. And you positively glow when you get excited by an idea.”
I blush at that. I can’t deny it. But it’s taken a long time to get to a place where I felt confident about my work. For so long, I felt inferior. Probably because of everything that happened to me before.
Things that I shouldn’t be thinking about on my not-a-date-maybe-a-date with Warren.
Chapter Twenty-Five
By the time we get back to the mansion, I’m one hundred percent buzzed, and not just on wine and the carbohydrates.
I’m buzzed because Warren likes me.
He has to like me.
No one does what he did without liking the person, right?
Hell, he’s even carrying all of the stuff I bought into the house. The mansion, whatever.
I look at him, and I wink. I’m attempting to be charming, but then I trip on the steps and he has to catch me. I manage to grab onto his arm before faceplanting.
“Thanks,” I say, brushing myself off and opening the door. “Maybe I should save the seduction for when we’re inside.”
He laughs. “Is that what that was?”
I’m about to answer, but then a fuzzy blur bursts through the open door. It’s Duke, wagging his tail and showering me with kisses.
“Who’s the best boy?” I ask him, scratching him behind the ears. “I hope you’ve been keeping an eye on Gary like we talked about. He needs a positive role model and you’re just the dog to do it.”