“Exactly.”
“Even though you called me attractive and I kissed you on your front porch.”
My face was on fire again. “Especially because of that.”
He laughed, a warm sound that seemed to wrap around me like a favorite sweater. “You know, for a librarian, you’re really bad at maintaining a consistent narrative.”
“And for a delivery guy, you’re surprisingly good at literary analysis.”
“I read sometimes,” he said with mock offense. “I’m not completely hopeless.”
The server appeared to take our drink orders, and I found myself relaxing as we fell into easy conversation. After a longer moment than I’d ever spent looking at a wine menu, Jeremiah ordered us a bottle of red and suggested we share the bruschetta, his confidence in making decisions oddly attractive.
“So,” he said after the server disappeared, leaning back in his chair and studying me with those impossibly blue eyes. “You have a daughter? No mom in the picture?”
The question should’ve startled me. At least, the bluntness of it should have. But the sincerity in Jeremiah’s eyes, the warmth of his gaze, the way he made me relax just looking at him . . . his question didn’t bother me in the least.
“Debbie is my goddaughter,” I said, bracing myself for the hundred questions everyone asked when I told them our story. “Her mom was my cousin.”
Jeremiah’s tone softened. “Was?”
I nodded. “She and her husband died in a car accident the day before Debbie’s first birthday. I was twenty-six—no, twenty-seven—had just started my job at the school. There weren’t any grandparents or other family to take her, so Debbie came to live with me. She’s my daughter in every way that matters.”
Jeremiah sat back and let the server do his initial wine tasting and pouring routine, his eyes never leaving mine—not for a second. Once the server left, he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.
“That must’ve been hard, everything changing all of a sudden.”
Something in the obvious empathy pouring out of him touched me so deeply I thought I might cry right there at the table. I’d told our story so many times, one might think I’d become desensitized. The way Jeremiah literally leaned in . . .
“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back. “I shouldn’t pry.”
Reflexively, I reached out and gripped his forearm, stopping him from surrendering the space. His eyes flicked to my hand and then back to me. I pulled away, grabbed my glass, and took a long sip.
“It’s okay. Everyone asks. I would’ve been surprised if you hadn’t.”
He watched me for a long moment. I tried to maintain eye contact, but his gaze was so intense that I found myself staring into my wine glass.
“She seems like an awesome little girl,” were his next words.
I smiled, and my heart answered. “She’s everything.”
The bruschetta arrived, and we dove in. I knew he had more questions, but I was grateful for the moment’s distraction.
That’s when my phone rang.
I reached down and silenced it.
“Grab that if you need to,” Jeremiah said.
I waved him off. “It’s okay. Probably a sales call.”Seconds later, it rang again.
My brow furrowed. No one called me, especially on a Friday night.
“Let me just check. It’s probably—”
It was Julia.
I flicked the phone to life and held it to my ear. “Julia, is everything all right?”
