Finally, I say, “There’s nothing wrong with a cabin in the woods.”
“Definitely not.” He smiles now, his lips looking more delectable than I want them to.
I keep my gaze on him even as the server drops off our drinks.
“Are we ready to order?” she asks.
We’re not, but I glance at the menu and order the first thing I see. “Penne al fumo, please.”
JP picks up on what I just did and runs a finger down the menu. “I’ll have the duck risotto, please.” After handing the server our menus, he turns back to me. “Have you been here before?”
“No, I just don’t like reading menus, so I always just order the first thing I see.”
“And that works out for you?”
I nod. “It’s how I always decide on books.”
“What do you mean?”
I take a sip of my Old Fashioned. “When I’m deciding whether or not I want to read a book, I flip to a random place and read the first sentence I see. If I want to keep reading, or if I want to go back and find out what’s going on, then I can tell if it’s worth my time.”
He leans back and rotates his glass on the table. “I thought it was always about the first sentence.”
I wave a hand. “Not for me. The first sentence has no context. And often authors are trying too hard to grab the attention of agents, publishers, or readers that they stab too much shock value in a sentence that should really just set the scene.”
He runs a hand along his chin.
“What’s the first sentence in your book?” I ask.
He lets out a quick laugh. “Gather ‘round, children, there’s something you should see... let’s take a gander at the ugliest creatures of the sea.”
My mouth drops, then I burst out laughing.
He shrugs. “I wrote a children’s book with the first kindergarten class I ever taught.”
“Aww, you’re precious,” I say, calming my laughter.
He dips his head into one nod and offers a shy smile. Crimson dances over his cheekbones, and I’m finding it more than endearing. He is incredibly handsome.
“Thank you,” he says, cheeks still flushed.
“Once again I realized how familiar everything about him had become—his smell, his touch, the cadence of his breath, and the way his voice sounded against the waves crashing in the distance,” I quote.
“What’s that from?”
“It’s a line from Caroline Harrington’s first novel. It’s in the very middle,” I say, smiling and remembering the smudged ink on the page. “But once I read it, I had to know who this man was and how they got there.”
He stares at me thoughtfully, running a gentle thumb over his bottom lip. “I think I have a crush on you.”
My gaze lifts from the table, and I smile at his preciously juvenile remark. “Good.”
He laughs, reaching across the table and taking my hand. There’s a spark of energy when his skin touches mine, and I almost jerk away. Instead, I find my senses enticed by the heat, wrapping my fingers around his and wondering how he’s already become this familiar.
I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in stars aligning. But something tells me he and I were meant to meet.
“You have to promise me something,” I say.
“It’s too early for promises,” he quips, and I roll my eyes with a helpless smile.
