The drive to the restaurant took exactly twelve minutes, during which I managed to work myself into a complete panic. What if we had nothing to talk about? What if this was all some elaborate misunderstanding and Jeremiah thought we were just friends grabbing food? What if I spilled something on my shirt or said something stupid or—
I pulled into the parking lot. My brain froze.
Jeremiah was pacing back and forth in front of the restaurant entrance like an expectant father outside the birthing room (or whatever they call it), running his hands through his blond hair and checking his phone every few seconds. Even from a distance, nervous energy wafted off him like waves of energy pouring off the sun.
Which was oddly comforting.
At least I wasn’t the only one freaking out.
I took a steadying breath, checked my own reflection in the rearview mirror one more time, and climbed out of the car.
He spotted me immediately, his face breaking into that devastating smile that had been haunting my dreams for days. He wore dark jeans that hugged his legs and a blue button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone, giving me a tantalizing glimpse of the chest I’d been trying not to think about.
My mouth went completely dry.
“Hey,” he said as I approached. His voice had that slightly rough, stuttery quality that suggested he was just as nervous as I was.
“Hey yourself.” I stopped a few feet away, unsure of the appropriate greeting protocol. Handshake? Hug? Another surprise kiss?
We both reached out, me with an open palm, him with a fist to bump. What adults bumped fists on a date?
He must’ve realized how ridiculous that was and went for a hug instead. The result was an awkward collision of limbsthat ended with my face pressed briefly against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of his cologne and the faint hint of lavender soap.
He was warm and solid and smelled like safety and adventure all rolled into one. I could’ve stood there all night, and the date would’ve been utter perfection.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as we untangled ourselves. “I’m not usually this . . .”
“Awkward?” I said, immediately regretting it.
“I was going to say charming, but awkward works, too.”
I laughed, and some of the tension in my shoulders eased. “Well, you’re in good company. I think I’ve forgotten how to people. Dating is a foreign language.”
“Do what?”
“Date. Be a normal person who goes on dates with attractive men.”
The words slipped out before I could stop them, and I felt my face flame. Had I just called him attractive? Out loud?
Oh God, oh God, oh God.
But Jeremiah’s smile widened, his eyes practically sparkling in the early evening light.
“You think I’m attractive?” One brow cocked, and his mouth twisted in a mischievous grin.
“I think we should go inside before I say something even more embarrassing,” I managed, but I was smiling, too.
The restaurant was one of those cozy Italian places with dim lighting and checkered tablecloths, the kind of spot that managed to feel romantic without trying too hard. We were seated at a corner table, and I found myself grateful for the relative privacy.
“Wine?” Jeremiah asked, studying the drink menu with the intensity of someone taking a final exam.
“God, yes. Ask for the barrel and a bendy straw.”
He grunted and looked up, clearly surprised by the fervor in my voice. I felt compelled to explain.
“It’s been an endless week. Between work and Debbie and obsessing over this date—” I stopped, realizing what I’d just admitted. “I mean, thinking about this dinner, this friendly dinner between two perfectly capable adults who barely know each other.”
“Right,” he said, but he was grinning. “Very friendly. Very platonic. Nothing date-like about it at all.”
