He slips into the jacket and runs his fingers through his sandy hair, reining it in. I feel like I’m staring now, unable to comprehend how he turned himself into a GQ model in thirty seconds. He locks the truck and sticks his arm out.
“I didn’t realize this was a date,” I say, frozen as if I’m standing in quicksand.
“It’s not. We’re hungry and we’re feeding ourselves … in a more civilized way.”
“And you just happened to have a dinner jacket in your truck?”
“Had Mary-Kate pick it out from the men’s section. Again, I may live in the mountains, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to be a gentleman.” He motions with his arm again. “Shall we?”
I nod, take his arm, and toss my hair off my shoulders while also telling myself this is no big deal. When my fingers slide into the crook of his elbow, my skin tingles in response.
With the night breeze tickling my shoulders, the realization that my scar is on full display causes me to stop just before we reach the restaurant entrance.
“I’m not sure I can do this.”
Duke stops and turns to me. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure I’m ready to have this on full display yet,” I say, tilting my head toward my shoulder.
Without hesitation, he takes his jacket off and slips it over my shoulders. “I don’t think you should let it run you anymore but wear this as long as you want.”
“Thank you,” I say, lifting my chin up as we walk in. I’m playing it cool, but I’ve never had a man treat me like this. Well, except for Leo.
Once inside, we’re greeted by linen-covered chairs, candles in mason jars, and a string of Edison bulbs zigzagging overhead. A friendly hostess seats us in a corner booth that faces the stage, where people are setting up for what looks like a night of music. We’re each handed a menu, and a separate waiter pours us glasses of water.
“This is a fairly romantic place to just feed ourselves,” I tease as I peruse the menu. “There’s even live music tonight? I hope it’s not a string quartet.”
“Journey cover band,” he says, flipping the page of the menu. “They cycle through the mountain towns. They’re amazing.”
“Oh?” My eyebrows tent as I set my menu down for a moment and take a sip of water.
His head tilts as he meets my eyes. “What?”
“Journey?”
“You pegged me for a country music lover, didn’t you?”
“It’s possible that I may have.”
“Nope. I’m into what you high falutins would call yacht rock.”
“Yacht rock? Like easy listening?”
“Steely Dan, Cristopher Cross, Journey, LRB. The best.”
“Wow, I believe it’s also called dad rock. You’re not secretly a fifty-year-old father of teenagers, are you?”
He chuckles. “No. No. I’m not a father of teenagers. If we’re going by stereotypes, I would say you only listen to opera music and drink ice-cold martinis.”
“Because I live in New York you somehow think I listen to opera music?”
“You’re sophisticated, cultured … am I close?”
I close my menu and tap my fingers on it. “My stepfather has season tickets to the Metropolitan Opera House, and I would go with him frequently. I do enjoy a good opera as well as an ice-cold martini.”
Which I order when the waitress comes back. Duke asks for a Pinot Noir. We clink glasses and fill the time before our entrées arrive with stories of our families since we both have wonderful stepfathers.
“Where is your biological father now?” Duke asks.
