“I won’t bite,” I sass, trying to bring some humor into this situation. A bucket of water is what I need to douse the fire burning within me.
“I’m afraid I will.” He chuckles, deep and throaty and hot, as he sees my eyes widen. So hot. So, so hot.
“My hands are itching to touch you and I—” with an exhale his hands slides over his lips and chin “—I would really like to take you on a date.”
“Well, well, well. Asher Hunter, aren’t you a gentleman?” I wink at him, and he smiles. “Give me a second to grab my purse.”
I grab my purse and phone and meet Asher right outside my door at the Amelia Inn. This little town is so quaint and beautiful, and I love that I get to spend every New Year’s Eve here.
Today, I’m glad I get to show Asher around. He leads us to his car, some rental according to him, my hand draped through his arm and his scent wrapping me up like a hug.
“Mmm, this is not the way,” I say, pointing toward downtown, where he’s driving us.
He nods but continues driving like he didn’t hear me.
“You know, it’s bad manners to ignore beautiful girls you’re supposed to be out on a date with.”
“I thought you said you were a woman.”This asshat.
“Fair, fair.”
“I want to see the lights with you before we head to dinner. I heard they’re beautiful out here.” He’s not wrong. Amelia Island puts on beautiful lights throughout all of downtown, covering each oak tree and every store.
“Fair,” I reply, breathing out and resting my head on the seat.
“Who’s the one with monosyllables today?” He finally looks my way, and damn, he’s breathtaking. Dark eyes pierce through me long enough that I get nervous he’s going to hit something, so I tear my gaze from his.
“What’s with this town and the shrimp?” He points at one of the stores, a festive shrimp with colorful lights around his neck and a Santa hat in the window.
“Don’t you know about the shrimp history here?”
“Other than there’s shrimp everywhere I look? No, I don’t.” He lowers the volume until the Christmas songs blend with the whoosh of the AC.
“Amelia Island is actually where the modern shrimping industry started. Long story short, in the early 1900s, immigrants came to Fernandina Beach. Italians, I believe, but don’t quote me on that.”
I twirl a piece of my hair between my fingers.
“They were the first to use powered boats and wider nets, and it changed the way the world caught shrimp. It turned Amelia Island into a shrimping town, and now all the celebrations include shrimp.”
“All the celebrations?” he asks as he turns the car into the parking lot of the Ritz Carlton.
“Yeah, a shrimp festival, the shrimp drop, and who knows what else.” I reach over to my door, but his hand covers mine, stopping me.
“Let me,” he says, and I nod, biting my lower lip on my usual corner, a habit I can’t break. In the blink of an eye, he comes around the car, almost rolling over the hood in a race to beat the valet, which he does. With my hand in his, he leads us to the room where the dinner is hosted.
I told Livie and my siblings I wasn’t sitting at my usual table this year and they almost collapsed. The insufferable number of questions about why and who I was coming with were beyondwhat anyone could expect. And yes, one would think that after being so reserved and sticking to the same pattern like my life depended on it, I would be freaking out, but I’m not and I won’t. Right? I can be spontaneous. Hell, I was spontaneous. Here I am, showing everyone, including myself, how much of a rule breaker I can be.
The dinner is a three-course meal, naturally. Nicole had a hand in organizing it—because of course she did—and since our family palate is basically the United Nations of food preferences, there’s something for everyone. Variety, check.
This is also the exact type of dinner where about forty percent of my dates historically crash and burn. Not because I’m picky, but because men are either shocked I don’t eat meat, like I’ve just confessed to being an alien, or compelled to point out that I ‘have a good body,’ whatever that even means. As if I should hand out Yelp reviews for unsolicited commentary on my thighs. Newsflash: both of those conversational detours are boring. Move along, sir. I eat what I eat because I want to, like everyone else.
Same with men. I know what I want. It’s not being picky; it’s realizing what works for me. A man who can sit across from me, not make my food choices a TED Talk, and ask questions out of curiosity, not judgment? That’s what works.
Revolutionary concept, I know.
Not that this is a real date. Right?
Appetizers arrive, and not even that can break the tension between us. A whole elephant’s worth of tension—365 days’ worth, to be exact.
