“I don’t want to make a fuss. Also, the only other vegetable they have today is creamed spinach. I’m not generally a fan of that.”
“You’re a little bit picky,” I joke.
“I prefer to say I have discerning tastes,” he says, putting on airs.
I nod. “That makes sense. You do seem to have a thing for me.”
I expect him to laugh; instead, he leans closer, and I feel his hand on my knee beneath the table. “I’m afraid it’s becoming more than a thing, darling.”
I know I should stop him right there. I should remind him that we are pretending. That there is no future for us. Come tomorrow, I will be gone. But I don’t. I can’t. I don’t know if I’m only trying to enjoy the last of our time together, or if he has broken through my fears and the impossibility of it all. But his hand has me all out of sorts. I want it to live there.
“I just realized you’re left-handed!”
His eyebrows raise. This was obviously the last thing he expected to hear.
“I was just thinking that it would be hard for you to eat if you kept your hand there since you’re having to use a knife. And then I realized that it’s your right hand on my knee and that it would be even harder eating with your left hand. But then I realized, because as you know I was watching you eat, that you were doing it left-handed.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Are you feeling nervous? Is it my hand on your knee?”
“I’m not nervous.” Yes, I am. I’m nervous about how I’mfeeling. Or maybe anxious is more accurate. I feel his thumb slide softly against my knee. “I’m worried about saying goodbye tomorrow,” I admit. This pretending—if it’s even pretending for either of us anymore—has been better than I expected, which, of course, will lead to some level of heartache.
He’s considering me, as if he’s gauging how to respond. I can tell he wants to tell me tomorrow doesn’t have to be goodbye, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “Let’s not let tomorrow ruin today.”
He knows I know how he feels. I guess he doesn’t want to beat that into the ground. Or, maybe, he hopes there will be something about tonight that will speak his feelings directly into my soul, and I’ll be able to see past the roadblocks we would face.
It would be too easy.
I nod and cup his face in my hand in response. He closes his eyes when I drag my thumb slowly across his cheek. I lean in and replace my thumb with my lips and hear his breath catch.
I cannot believe the power I have over this man. Here he is—literally the dream of seventy percent of the world’s single women—and there’s something about me he likes well enough that it changes his breathing. Me. Small town, regular woman.
“You smell really nice,” I whisper as I lean back. “I haven’t noticed this scent before.”
“I bought it today while you were getting ready. I went out in search of some perfume for you but decided that I love how you always smell. And perfume is probably something you should choose yourself.”
I shake my head at him. “And you had already bought me these gorgeous earrings.”
He takes his hand from my knee, then reaches and lets one of the gems rest on his fingertips. He lets it drop, then trails his fingers down my neck. “You’re …” He clears his throat. “You’ve always been stunning to me, but there’s something about your hair being up and the curve of your neck that drives me a bit wild.”
That last part, in combination with his accent, threatens to make me fall out of my chair. He rests his hand against my neck.
“Do I need to take my hair down for you to be able to finish eating?” I tease, trying to bring some levity to a conversation that was getting a little too romantic for my saying-goodbye-tomorrowself.
He slowly removes his hand. “Oh, darling. That would leave me distracted by your lovely hair.”
35
Alexander
IvyandIaresitting in a pub, and I’m wondering at the wisdom of my suggestion that we sing karaoke. I know I must look like myself, dressed as nicely as I am. My glasses do next to nothing to disguise me. I know this. But when Ivy agreed to my plan, I was too chuffed to change it.
She and I are looking at song options, and I’m having trouble focusing with Ivy’s arm brushing mine each time she turns the page of the book of songs.
“I have an idea.” Ivy turns to me, a cheeky look in her eyes.
“Alright. What is it? A duet?”
“Nope. I choose your song, and you choose mine.”
