He gives me an innocent look. “No, I promised no flirting on ournon-date.You said nothing about thepre–non-date window.”
I roll my eyes and grab a notepad, adding, “pancake stack” to the top. “Would you like a side of bacon and coffee with your pancakes?”
“You are reading my mind already.” He leans forward, lowering his voice enough to make my pulse skip. “That’s clearly fate.”
I quickly turn toward the kitchen window, mostly so he can’t see the flush rising over my neck. “Walking in pigs and cakes,” I say, handing the ticket to Margie, who gives me a knowing look and raises an eyebrow.
If I was looking for a man, this would be the time where I would loiter near the counter and find all sorts of ways to make small talk.That’s the last thing I need to do!I quickly turn the automatic coffeepot on, then busy myself wiping down already-clean tables on the opposite side of the place, while my eyes keep flicking out the window as I pray for customers, so I can busy myself with them.
It’s not lost on how Bill has settled onto his stool like he now owns it. His hair is a tad longer than what is normally deemed clean cut, but he wears it parted on the side, in a classic old-money part. His eyes do that crinkle thing when he catches me watching him.
Doh!
Why am I watching him?
I shake my head and mutter under my breath, “Get it together, Ruth.”
But my heart doesn’t seem to care. It seems like it’s already planning what I’m going to wear to our non-date. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “So, do you care to give me any hints about our non-date this afternoon, so I know what to wear?”
“There’s going to be snacks.” His voice is even, like he has the itinerary already memorized. “And activity.”
“Activity?” I echo with raised eyebrows, as that sounds a tad suspicious. I never agreed to activities. The coffeepot gurgles, announcing it’s done, and I hustle behind the counter, pour his cup, and slide it across the counter.
“Don’t worry about it.” He winks as he takes his cup by the handle and leans back. “I got it taken care of. You just bring yourself.”
“Order up!” Margie saves me, and I turn on my heel and grab his plate, setting it in front of him.
“Enjoy.” I smile politely as the door opens again, bringing in a new table of customers, and I’m able to step aside, leaving Bill to eat.
I wish I could say my mind was put to ease, but it races full throttle all afternoon.
I drive right up to the fence and park under a crabapple tree that’s stubbornly holding on to a few brown leaves, like it’s claiming them to prove we won’t have a winter this year. Kind of like what I’m doing, clinging to the fact this isn’t a date.
Because it’s not a date.
It’s two people sharing a snack.
Two people who may, or may not, be attracted to each other.
Definitely not a date.
After killing the engine, I sit with my fingers wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my heart flutters. Then I stuff my small wallet into my oversized coat pocket, swing open the door and step out.
The chilly air bites at my knees, and the regret of my decision to wear a dress sinks in. It’s my favorite shade of pink to match my coat. Now that I’m here, I know without a doubt, it’s completely wrong for a winter “non-date.” He didn’t forewarn me about the outdoor part. At least I had the foresight to wear tights. Still, as I tug the hem of the dress and glance around, I feel completely overdressed. Yet, underdressed at the same time, if that makes any sense.
Bill’s sitting casually on a park bench, wearing jeans, a Granite Ice hoodie, and a crooked smile that doesthingsto my nervous system. The second his eyes land on me, his grin widens, which sends my heart ramping up even more. “Wow,” he says as he stands and strides toward me. “You look incredible. Pink’s totally your color.”
I blink, all the while I’m yelling internally at myself for how terrible this is going. He’s not supposed to compliment the color. It’s my favorite color, and he’s not supposed to notice that. “Uh. Thanks.”
“Are you ready for this extravagant snackfest?” He gestures toward the stretch of sidewalk lined with food trucks. “There’s a food truck festival today. So, it’s a very casual non-dateactivity, but hopefully you find something you enjoy snacking on.” He holds his phone out in front of us, where he has a list opened to the food truck lineup, and he starts reading, “Okay, we’ve got: deep-fried mac and cheese balls, pizza-stuffed waffles, cheddar tots, PB&J quesadillas, candy corn cotton candy, giant corn dogs, walking tacos, fifty-two flavors of lemonade, and mini donuts.”
“That’s a lot of choices.” I run my hand through my hair, tucking back a few strays that seem to want to play in the wind.
He shoots me his mischievous smile. “You don’t think you can handle it?”
“Oh, no, I can totally handle it, but let’s walk and see what looks good,” I suggest, tugging my jacket closed, and I fall into step beside him.
Large crowds of people pack the sidewalks, and the scent of everything from sweet, spicy, and salty aromas swirl this way. We move slowly, shoulder to shoulder, and the tight coil of nerves in my stomach starts to loosen. Maybe it’s the fresh air doing its thing, but the more steps we take, the easier my breath is.
