He was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I’d stepped into territory he didn’t want to discuss. Then his mouth curved into something between a smile and a smirk.
“You threw up.”
I stared at him. “I did what?”
“Threw up. All over the parking lot of this Italian restaurant I’d spent two weeks researching.” He was fully grinning now. “You insisted you were fine. That you wanted to try the ride I’d been talking about. I told you it was a bad idea right after eating, but you were determined to prove you had a strong stomach.”
“Oh my god.” I was absolutely horrified.
He laughed at the memory. “I found you in the parking lot looking absolutely mortified. You were convinced I’d never want to see you again.”
My face was burning. “What did you do?”
“Bought you ginger ale. Held your hair and took you home.” His expression softened. “Then I texted you the next morning asking when you wanted to try again.”
“And I said yes?”
“You said yes.” His thumb traced across my knuckles. “So tomorrow isn’t our first date. Well, technically, it’s our first date since we got married. I want us to do it. Without the vomiting this time, preferably.” He grimaced.
I was still processing the mortification. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so—wait.” I looked at him more closely. His mouth was twitching. “Are you lying to me?”
His face split into the biggest grin I’d ever seen—pure trouble and zero remorse.
“MICHAEL!”
“Okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He was laughing now, full-on laughing. “I was just teasing you.”
“I almost believed it! I was ready to never eat Italian food again!”
“Your face though.” He wiped at his eyes. “You looked absolutely horrified. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”
“You’re terrible.” I smacked his chest but I was fighting a smile. “I can’t believe you made up a whole story about me vomiting. That’s so mean.”
“In my defense, you have no way to verify whether it’s true or not.” He caught my hand before I could hit him again. “I deserve the right to make fun of you a little for forgetting our first date.”
“By inventing a humiliating story?”
“It’s character building.”
“For who?”
“For me. Builds my character to see you get all flustered.” He leaned in quick and pecked my cheek. “Seven o’clock tomorrow, Mrs. Ashford. Don’t be late.”
“We live together. How would I be late?”
“You’ll find a way. You’re creative like that.“
That night I couldn’t sleep.
I lay there thinking about the kiss in the bathroom.
The way he looked at me sometimes like I was the only thing worth looking at.
This should feel overwhelming. Should feel too fast and too much.
Instead it just felt right.
I hadn’t been excited about anything in longer than I could remember. And that thought made something whisper in theback of my mind—that I couldn’t remember much at all actually, that there was a whole year missing—but I pushed it away.
