I shrug, suddenly not wanting to talk about the other mountain man who deserted me. “I’m not sure. Probably floating from mountain town to mountain town being a ski instructor. My mother didn’t want to live that life. She had drive, wanted a career. When she met Preston Denning, he whisked me, my mother, and my brother Carson to Manhattan to give us a better life.”
“And what about the other mountain man who was in your life?”
“I don’t think it’s right to discuss exes on a first date.” Damn it, as soon as I see Duke’s eyebrows arch and a playful grin gracehis lips, I regret letting that one slip. “I mean, this isn’t a date, but if it were … anyway. I’d rather not talk about my ex.”
“Understood. We could at least circle back to your rules for dating. I know number one is that you don’t believe in love at first sight.”
“That’s right. I need more time to get to know a person before I can confirm it’s love.”
“What else would you need to know?”
“There’ssomuch more to know. For example, how do you organize your cutlery drawer?”
He leans in. “Uh, I don’t.”
“Well, that’s a strike against you.”
“You have really high standards,” he says, taking a sip of wine. “I hope you find a man who can live up to them someday.”
“It’s when I had low standards that I got in trouble. Now, I demand organized cutlery drawers, no thumb rings, and someone who isn’t going to abandon our relationship every time he’s on a quest to conquer a new mountain.”
“You know, that seems easy enough. Anything else? Wait, I bet,” he pauses, bringing his fingers to his chin. “You don’t like red roses because they are cliché and wasteful.”
“You’ve been taking notes from Allie and Leo, haven’t you?”
“I’m good a figuring out what makes people tick.” He leans back spreading his arms wide against the back of the booth.
“You can put that smirk away. You’re only partially correct. I love flowers, just not roses.”
His smirk transforms into a full-blown grin. “Noted.”
Our food arrives and the timing is almost cinematic—steaming plates placed between candlelight and good conversation.
I swirl a forkful of linguine, grateful for something to do with my hands while Duke pours more wine. We eat slowly, falling intoa warm rhythm of teasing and real talk, like we’ve known each other longer than a week.
When our plates are cleared and we waved off the offer of dessert, I slide closer to him in the booth when the music starts. I don’t even try to sing along with him as he belts out the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believing” and “Open Arms.” I sit back and listen. He really is an amazing singer.
I take his arm again as we walk back to the truck, and we laugh on the way home about the waitress who thought we were a married couple and about the woman who thought the cover band’s presence meant she could stand up and sing along like it was an actual Journey concert even though she couldn’t carry a tune.
“I’m just happy she didn’t take her bra off and whip it at the stage,” I say.
Duke laughs as he pulls into the driveway of his house. “Give me a second, want to drop Jameson off so he can get a potty break and head up to bed before I help you with your bags.”
“Oh, I can walk or … I mean, you don’t have to help me with my bags,” I protest, but he doesn’t hear me. Part of me is not sure how much more I can take being alone with Duke without throwing myself at him again. If we had actually been on a date, it would have been the best one I’ve ever had.
“Nonsense,” he says. “I want to walk you back to your room. I’ll just be a minute.”
When he returns moments later, he hops in the truck, shuts the door, but doesn’t start the truck right away. He watches me in silence, something dark and restless stirring behind his eyes.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I lied to you just now.”
“Excuse me?”
“Me wanting to drop Jameson off wasn’t just about wanting to help you back to your room withyour bags.”
My eyebrows tent. “Oh?”
