“In due time.” He kisses below my ear, causing me to melt against him.
It’s not just the sensation of this strong man’s gentle kisses, but the promise underscoring his words. For a man who just wants more time with the people he cares about, this is huge. He may say he doesn’t know what will happen—that there’s no guarantee—but goals speak of hope. This is the first step on a marathon that I hope takes a lifetime to conclude.
“But, tonight’s goal is to take you out on our first date.” He steps back but places his hands on my hips.
“And then fuck me in my red heels?” I shimmy my hips.
“Fuck!” Head tipped back, a deep belly laugh roars out of him, solidifying one of my many, many goals for this man.
Belly-deep laugh. Check.
This is by far the best date I’ve ever been on, and we’ve only ordered our drinks. Granted, I haven’t had a lot of dates, but it’s top tier. There isn’t any awkward swirl inside me as if I’m saying or doing the wrong thing. I don’t have to worry about explainingthings to Garrett about my vision or any assistance I may need. The last five years of friendship assures me he knows.
Not only did he share with me where we’d be going, so I could look up the menu ahead of time, but he requested a table beneath one of the small chandeliers scattered around the dining room, near the bathroom, so I could easily navigate. Upon arrival, he spent a few minutes orienting me to the restaurant’s layout and table’s setting. His description not only helps me understand where things are but painted the image in my head of the dining room filled with round tables draped in white linen cloths—a flickering candle in the center of each one—and lush red leather chairs.
“How on earth did Catherine find a hockey jersey for Ditka?” Garrett holds up his phone and shakes his head.
Since Anker volunteered to watch Ditka for tonight, the ladies brought happy hour to his place. Our friends are currently making fancy cocktails, eating Thai, and watching tonight’s LA Bobcats game.
“You know you love it.” I grin.
“Your diet sodas in wine glasses,” the server chuckles as he sets our glasses on the table.
My smile tugs up just a little more at Garrett’s small, huffed laugh that almost says, “Only you.” Since we’re at a steakhouse along the shoreline, I thought the glasses added to the fancy-pants nature, so I requested our drinks be brought in them.
“Do we know what we want?” the server asks.
“Jensen?”
“The peppercorn-glazed sirloin—medium well—with the white cheddar mac and cheese and the broccolini.” I lean back against the cushy leather chair.
“Broccolini?” Garrett clears his throat.
“Someone is a bad influence.” I smirk.
“I’ll have the same.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Mac and cheese?”
“Someone’s a bad influence.” A wink plays in his low timbre.
Best date ever!How is it that I’m even having fun ordering food with this man?
“Anything else?” the server says.
“No, thank you.”
“Very good. It will be out shortly,” the server says before striding away.
“Your drink is at ten o’clock,” Garrett says. “My mother will be aghast that I’m drinking soda out of a wineglass.”
“I like that you do that,” I murmur, my heart swelling.
He tilts his head. “Do what?”
“Tell me where my drink is and act like it’s nothing.” Placing my hand on the table as an anchor, I trail up until I grasp the glass’s stem. “Most people don’t think of it, or they make a big deal. You always remember but never make me feel bad about it.”
He makes a low growly noise in his throat. “I don’t like that anyone would make you feel bad for that.”
