“Then they weren’t paying attention.” I lift her hand to my mouth, press a kiss to her knuckles. “Their loss.”
Bella Notte is tuckedon a corner in downtown Pine Valley, warm light spilling from the windows onto the snowy sidewalk. The hostess leads us to a booth in the back—intimate, private, just like I requested. The whole place smells like garlic and fresh bread and candle wax.
Tessa slides into the booth, and I take the seat across from her. Close enough that our knees brush under the table. She doesn’t move away.
“This is nice,” she says, looking around. “Really nice.”
“Wait until you try the pasta.”
“Let me guess—you know someone.”
“I know everyone.” I lean back, spreading my arms along the booth. “Occupational hazard. People tell bartenders things. Best pasta in Montana, worst first date locations, whose marriage is falling apart, who’s secretly in love with their best friend’s sister?—”
“Worst first date location?”
“Mini golf.” I shake my head solemnly. “Too competitive. Someone always gets mad about the windmill.”
She laughs—a real one, surprised out of her—and her whole face changes. Softer. Younger. God, she’s beautiful when she lets herself go like that.
“Noted. No mini golf.”
“Definitely no mini golf.” I hold her gaze, let the moment stretch. “Not that we need alternatives. I’m pretty confident in tonight.”
“Confident.”
“Extremely.” I drop my voice lower, watch her pupils blow wider in response. “I’ve been planning this for a while. What I’d say. What I’d do. How I’d make you feel.”
Her knee presses harder against mine under the table. “And how’s that going so far?”
“You tell me.”
The waiter shows up before she can answer—wine, appetizers, the house special that he swears will ruin us for pasta anywhere else. When he leaves, Tessa’s got that look on her face. The one that means she’s trying to figure something out.
“Ask,” I say.
“What?”
“Whatever you’re thinking. I can see it. You’ve got a question and you’re deciding whether to ask it. So ask.”
She tilts her head. “How do you do that? Read people so easily?”
“Practice.” I pour us both some wine, take my time with it. “When you spend your whole childhood behind a bar, you learn to watch people. Gramps had me helping out from the time I could see over the counter. Taught me to notice things—who’s had too much, who’s about to start trouble, who just needs someone to listen.” I shrug. “After a while, it becomes second nature.”
“That’s... actually really sweet.”
“Gramps is a sweet guy. Don’t tell him I said that.” I take a sip of wine. “My parents moved to LA when I was fifteen—my dad got a job offer he couldn’t turn down. I was supposed to go with them, but Gramps needed help with the bar, and I didn’t want to leave Honeyridge. So I stayed.”
Her expression softens. “That must have been hard. Being away from your parents.”
“It was, at first. But Gramps made it work. And my parents visit when they can—holidays, summer. Now that Gramps isretired, he spends most of his time fishing and showing up at the bar to complain about my playlist.” I grin. “He thinks anything recorded after 1975 is noise.”
“He still comes by?”
“Every week. Orders the same whiskey, sits in the same seat, tells me everything I’m doing wrong.” I meet her eyes. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
The appetizers arrive—bruschetta, calamari, something involving cheese and fire that the waiter presents with dramatic flair. Tessa watches with wide eyes, then looks at me.
“You planned the fire cheese.”
