He’s in denial. I show him a Grinch toy, and he scowls. “Ha!” I laugh. “That face! Now you look just like him.”
He smooths his features. “Do not.”
Hall is so much fun to tease. “You really ought to finish the movie. He redeems himself in the end.”
“I find that highly unlikely.”
“He does! He gives back all the stuff he took, and—”
“Your table is ready,” the hostess says, appearing behind us. Hall pins me with a severe look, a reproach for defending the Grinch. His lashes are so dark along the lash line that from a few feet away, it appears like he could be wearing a hint of eyeliner. The jade in his irises is a stark contrast. Why would the universe make him this attractive?
As we’re led through the din of the restaurant, I feel a rise of apprehension that’s usually triggered by crowds, but luckily, no one notices me. Right as I reach to pull out my chair, Hall touches my shoulder gently. Begins to remove my coat. I revolve to help him tug me loose from my sleeves, and he grins at my obvious surprise. Then he pulls out my chair for me, gesturing for me to sit; after I do, he pushes me back in. We both order hot chocolate.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I mumble after the hostess leaves us, swallowing a lump in my throat. “You don’t have to do fiancé things when we’re alone.”
He slants me a look. “Having good manners isn’t a fiancé thing. It’s a Hall thing.”
I study him, thinking that being kind should be a Bettie thing, too, at least where it concerns him.
Hall’s hot chocolate is gone before I’m finished ordering the wild Maine blueberry pancakes.
“I would like six more hot chocolates with my French toast,” he tells our waitress. “And the Sunrise Sampler.”
“Gotcha.” She writes it down on her pad.
“I know the mini confetti pancakes are on the kids’ menu, but could I have those, too?”
“You got it. Will that be it for you, sir?”
“No, I want the fish fry, too. With steak fries and cole slaw.” He scrapes hot chocolate residue from the inside of his mug with a spoon. “This is the best hot chocolate in the world, did you know?”
“The secret is to heat the milk, add the cocoa, and then heat it up again for another thirty seconds,” she stage-whispers, smiling as she scribbles down our order.
He hands the menu over with some reluctance, sorry to see it go. Then he says to me in a low, urgent murmur, “It was so hard to narrow that down.”
“I can tell.”
“I really, really wanted to try the chicken tenders.” He stares longingly after our waitress, who disappears into the kitchen. “Maybe I’ll get some to go.”
“You’d have to. There won’t be enough room on the table for anything else.”
I glance curiously around the room, partially to take in the decorations and partially to make sure no one’s surreptitiously snapping pictures of me. “No one’s going to recognize you,” he tells me softly, as if reading my mind.
I jerk back to attention. Hall’s got his elbows on the table,fingers laced, chin on top of them as his eyes burn into me. They really do look like they’re burning, an oil lamp flickering in them. It must be a trick of the light, but I imagine that I can see some of that unnatural green recede a fraction, giving way to caramel brown. And there’s an otherworldly glimmer in there, twin sparks you can only make out if you’re studying him extremely closely, from a specific angle. If I move just right, his irises become reflective.
“Did you put a spell on them? So that they won’t recognize me?”
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly, mouth curving the tiniest bit. It is the softest curve there ever was. Everything about Hall is like that, easy and comfortable and happy. He’s a collection of traits that adults like to scoff at as they grumble and age, as if contentment and curiosity should lie buried with childhood—but now that I think about it, it’s an act of courage to march to the beat of your own drum, to behave with compassion and generosity, with wonder. Why are adults so serious, so cynical, anyway? Hall is warm sweaters and hot cocoa, face turned resolutely to the bright side. Every day is an exciting new adventure for him. He likes what he likes and doesn’t care who knows, doesn’t care what others think. I admire it so much.
I’m realizing justhowmuch, sitting here across from him, batting back a warm feeling.
“You look different,” he says calmly.
“How so?”
His shoulders lift, then let go. A slow blink of those long, dark lashes. Maybe he’s putting a spell onme.
“You’ve been smiling more,” he responds at last. “The first day we knew each other, you didn’t smile as much. And it’s something else, too.” Another shrug. “Happiness can make someone look like a completely different person.”
