He nodded. “I wanted tonight to be perfect. No waiting, no decisions to stress over, no menus with prices and the awkwardness that comes with that. Just . . . us and good food and all these books.” He looked suddenly uncertain. “Was that a bad idea? I can call the server over if you want to change—”
“No,” I said quickly. “No, it’s . . . that’s incredibly thoughtful.”
As if summoned by our conversation, a server appeared with a bottle of wine that looked like it cost more than my monthly grocery budget. The label was in French, which I could read well enough to know it was from a region I’d only ever heard about in movies.
“The 2018 Châteauneuf-du-Pape,” the server said as he poured two glasses with practiced precision. “As requested. You may want to let this breathe for a moment.”
I watched the deep ruby liquid swirl in my glass, catching the lamplight like liquid garnet. When I took a sip, it was like velveton my tongue—complex and rich with hints of dark fruit and something that might have been earth or leather or the soul of a captured angel.
“This is incredible,” I said, probably sounding as overwhelmed as I felt.
“My mom taught me that good wine makes for good conversation,” Jeremiah said, raising his glass in a small toast. “To first real dates and rare books.”
“And to thoughtful men who plan impossible evenings,” I added, clinking my glass against his.
The first course arrived moments later—a delicate soup that tasted like autumn distilled into liquid form. Butternut squash, maybe? With hints of sage and something nutty I couldn’t identify. It was the kind of food that made you close your eyes and sigh with each spoonful.
“How did you even manage this?” I asked as the server whisked away our empty bowls and replaced them with plates of what looked like perfectly seared duck breast with a fruit reduction. “The reservation, the wine, ordering ahead?”
“I may have called in a favor,” Jeremiah admitted. “The owner’s daughter goes to your school—Mount Vernon. She was having trouble with some research for an English paper, and I mentioned it to Mike. He helped her out, and when I explained what I was trying to do . . .”
“You orchestrated a multi-person operation for our date?”
“I wanted it to be special.” His cheeks were slightly pink, whether from the wine or embarrassment, I couldn’t tell. “You’ve been so patient with all the canceled plans and chaos. I figured you deserved something that actually went right for once.”
The canceled plans I had canceled. The babysitter problems caused bymybabysitter. The nights shattered through no fault of Jeremiah.
This man took them all on himself—and vowed to correct them—for me.
I swallowed hard and took a sip to steady myself. The more I thought, the harder it was to concentrate. I needed to chill . . . and fast.
The duck was perfectly cooked, the meat so tender it practically melted on my tongue. The sauce was sweet and tart at the same time, with flavors that complemented rather than competed. I’d eaten at nice restaurants before, but this was different.
This was art masquerading as dinner.
“This is better than anything I’ve ever had,” I said honestly. “I feel like I should be taking notes.”
“Just enjoy it,” Jeremiah said, his smile warm in the lamplight. “We’ve got all night.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Course after course appeared at our table—each one more incredible than the last. There was a fish course that flaked apart like butter, vegetables that had been transformed into something approaching poetry, and flavors I didn’t even have words for.
And through it all, we talked, never struggling for words or slowing for thoughts. It was easy and pleasant and fun, everything I’d come to see in our moments together.
We talked about books, about work, about Debbie’s latest artistic endeavors and Mrs. Chen’s ongoing campaign to make our romance a neighborhood spectacle. The conversation flowed as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by moments of comfortable silence where we could just exist in this perfect bubble of warmth and possibility.
I thought the evening couldn’t possibly get any better, but when the server appeared with a small cart laden with what looked like the components for dessert, I knew I was wrong.
“Cherries jubilee,” the server announced, beginning what could only be described as a performance. The scent of brandy filled the air as he warmed it in a small pan, the alcohol catching flame in a burst of blue fire that made the whole table glow.
I panicked—only briefly—before the server smiled and said, “The books are behind glass in this section. They’ll be fine.”
Jeremiah chuckled softly as I released a sigh.
Fresh cherries were added to flaming brandy, their skins glistening as they caramelized in the heat. The smell was intoxicating—sweet and rich and shot through with the warm bite of alcohol. The flames died down as he ladled the cherry mixture over scoops of vanilla ice cream that had been perfectlyquenelledin crystal bowls. Steam rose from the warm fruit meeting the cold cream, and when I took my first bite, I made an involuntary sound of pleasure.
“Good?” Jeremiah asked, though his grin suggested he already knew the answer.
