He stands up a little taller. “Yeah, I am.”
Twisting and dropping one of my hands, he interlaces the other with mine. He guides me outside to his car and opens the door for me to slide in. I watch him stalk around the car, flexing his arms as they move through the air.
Is it hot in this car?
He sits in the driver’s seat and looks over at me. “Ready?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Sweetheart, you always have a choice with me.”
With my hand raised to my heart, it melts with his voice. Then I realize he called me ‘sweetheart.’ Oh, that’s probably just a reflex, but I’m hopeful it’s not.
I feel the blush on my cheeks as he reaches over and gently moves his fingers over my cheek. The feeling sends warmth ripping through my body and down to my core. Every nerve ending is firing one after the other. I want him to touch me forever; I like how his touch makes me feel.
He turns over the engine, and we drive, listening to his playlist. My kind of music: all 90s and 2000s. There was one point where we were both singing along. Me into my imaginary microphone, and him shouting at the top of his lungs. Carefree. Fun. Memorable moments.
“Are we almost there?”
He brings his hand over to touch and squeezes my leg. “Almost.”
He leaves his hand on my thigh. With slight hesitation, I lay my hand on top of his. His eyes meet mine, and neither of us can help but smile—at each other, at the heat radiating from where we are touching.
I break eye contact to look out the windshield, and in front of us are the beach and the ocean. “I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”
“We can walk on the beach if you want, but I have other plans.”
I’m giddy, but keeping it in is hard. I love surprises. I love the beach. No doubt he’s going to hit this date out of the park, but I’ll keep that to myself for now. Don’t want it to boost his ego too much. I giggle to myself.
“What’s so funny over there?” He shakes my leg a bit as he parks near the entrance to the beach.
“We have VIP parking?” I ask, shocked.
“Only for the best.”
He jumps out of the car, runs around to my door, and opens it up. He stoops down with one hand outstretched; I take it, and he lifts me to my feet. Our fingers intertwine as we walk on the sidewalk for a few minutes. The salty sea air invades my nose. While I sneak a peek into each store we walk by, there are a couple of gift shops where you can buy sweatshirts and T-shirts, boogie boards, and sand toys. Then there’s a jewelry store with a window display of aquamarine pieces—rings, necklaces. A consignment shop with racks on the sidewalk of bright colored shirts and dresses. I’m tempted to lead him into the store, but I’ll wait for the walk back.
He stops abruptly at a restaurant calledNick's On the Boardwalk,opens the door, and guides me inside. It’s nothing like I expected. Dane seems like an over-the-top kind of guy, but this restaurant is far from it. I’m not disappointed; actually, I'm pleasantly surprised. There are lobster traps and a large net with fake lobsters hanging from the ceiling. My eyes need to adjust to the dark wood floors and dim lighting.
The hostess says, “Table for two?”
“Yes, can we grab a seat on the patio?”
“Of course, right this way.”
She leads us through the dark and somewhat dingy dining room. If they turned the lights up a bit, it might not be that bad. The sun is blinding the moment we step onto the patio, music vibrating through the speakers, and people talking and laughing fill the air. And the most perfect high-top seat by the railing overlooks the beach and ocean. Ships passing by, a cool breeze on my face, and over on the left is the boardwalk.
“Here are your menus, and your waitress will be over shortly.”
“Dane, this is surprisingly breathtaking. You had me there for a minute. The inside was a bit dark and dingy.”
Dane laughs and scratches his beard. “I wondered what you were thinking. Though you didn’t leave too much to the imagination with the scowl that was on your face.”
“I did not.” Slapping him on his arm, yet feeling slightly embarrassed that I probably had a face on. It happens. I try to keep it locked up, but it occasionally escapes.
His eyes squint at me while still scratching his beard. “If you say so. Let’s order some drinks.”
Since it’s only a little after noon, I have a margarita. The waitress comes over, and he gestures for me to order first. Then, he says, “I’ll have an IPA; you choose.”
