Bennett lingers in the drawn-out silence. “Okay. As long as we’re clear.”
“Perfectly,” I say hesitantly, my voice shaky. I clear my throat. “Harper’s great, isn’t she?”
Bennett looks caught off guard by my quick transition. “She really is,” he says. “I have to thank you for not sending us to salsa dancing or anything. The night would’ve ended before it started.”
“Very interesting,” I say. “How do you know there’s not going to be dancing here?”
“Here in public? Where? On the tables?”
I motion toward the tables. “This date could be one giant flash mob. You don’t know.”
“If that happens, I’m gone.” Dread ripples across Bennett’s face. “I had an embarrassing junior prom moment that put me off dancing forever,” he explains.
I’m immediately intrigued, but he’s already been over here long enough. “Hates dancing. I’ll make a mental note,” I say, “for the next time that there won’t be because, I mean, come on!” I motion toward Harper across the square, who’s watching the live band that’s just started playing.
“She’s open to trying all the different food, she does interesting work, and she’s very pretty,” Bennett says. A pang shoots through me. “I admit you’re good. Though that was never in question.”
“Exactly. So how about we just call it for what it is? I win, you lose, we both move on.”
Bennett braces his hands against the back of a chair and leans forward. The veins in his forearms swell, shadows pooling in the grooves of his defined muscles. I pull my attention from them, remembering that they belong to the competition in front of me.
“The bet was on who would fall in love first. Last I checked, I’m not in love with Harper,” he says.
“Yet,” I say, not meaning to sound so hesitant about it.
“You’re not getting out of your date,” Bennett says, the corner of his mouth sloping upward.
I catch myself staring at him and look away before he notices me. “Speaking of date, I see what you’re trying to do here. The only rule was that you have to give it a fair shot. Don’t you dare sabotage this,” I say quickly. “Just ignore me. Pretend I’m not here.”
“That’s hard to do, but I’ll try,” Bennett says, his eyes sparkling in the palm tree’s lights. A flicker of electricity shoots through me. We linger in the moment for longer than I expect. Suddenly, he adds, “Hey, did you know Oktoberfest started in 1810, and every year, over two million gallons of beer are consumed?”
I lean forward in my chair. “Keep those fun facts between us,” I instruct. “I don’t know yet how Harper feels about trivia or you being a piñata filled with useless, but interesting, fun facts.”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Bennett says, walking backwardaway from me slowly. He pauses briefly and then turns and heads back to Harper.
When he’s gone, I become highly aware of his absence. He doesn’t look over in my direction for the next thirty or so minutes, as though there’s an unspoken agreement between us. He does something animated with his hands and makes Harper laugh more. I so badly want to know what he’s saying.
Twenty minutes later, I abandon my prime viewing position at the table and find cover in a shadowed arched doorway closer to Bennett and Harper. I check my phone for new emails and confirm the balloon delivery details for tomorrow’s Cookie Day.
“Would you like to join us at the table?” Bennett asks, appearing beside me in the doorway.
My hand flies up over my heart. “You scared me! Don’t do that!”
“You’re lurking creepily in the shadows.” Bennett positions himself next to me, resting his shoulder against the wall. “Do you do this for all your matches?”
“Remember what I said about pretending I’m not here?”
“Harper found a few of her chef friends. I think she’s bored with me,” Bennett says.
“What? No! She’s just being friendly,” I say, standing on my toes to look over the crowd. She’s surrounded by a small group of people in chef jackets. “Go back over there and charm her. Meet her friends.”
“Before I do that, I wanted to clear up something between us. What I said at the panel, about your Pó Po,” Bennett starts.
“You were just trying to rile me up. You were mad about the article,” I say, glancing up at him to gauge his reaction. It doesn’t matter whether I meant to send the article or not. The fact is, it’s out there. And for that, I do owe him an apology. “I’m sorry about that. And for using thedigital identity crisisline. And then throwing it back in your face at the panel. And for sneakily matching with you and lying about who I am.”
Bennett smirks. “Is that all?”
“Yes. That’s all I’m sorry for. Nothing else,” I say, watching him carefully.
