I stare at him. Is he having a stroke?
“You want garlic knots?”
Relieved, he nods.
“Okay,” I say, scribbling it down carefully like it’s the most complicated order I have ever received.
I’m going to ignore what he said about being single.
That did not happen.
He doesn’t wait for me to show him to his table. He rushes on with his order, asking for cheesecake and risotto in a breathless tumble of words.
Then he stops as abruptly as he started.
I think his system crashed.
I think my system is on fire.
Every few seconds his gaze flicks to my mouth, then away.
“Drink?” I ask, trying to stick to the script, but feeling like the weakest linkin an impro show.
“Drink?” he repeats.
His eyes drop to my lips again.
Then, softly, reverently, he breathes out, “Yes.”
Yes to what? To water? To the concept of liquid?
What’s wrong with him?
I seat him at a corner table.
He thanks me profusely.
I bring the water carafe and pour him a glass in what must be the mostawkward water-pouring event in human history.
He looks at the water like it’s holy and gulps it down immediately.
I watch his throat, then catch myself.
Do not look at him! He’s dangerous. Like the sun.
My pulse refuses to settle.
Having Caspian Stone thank me quietly every time I pass feels unreal.
It’s maddening.
By the time he’s finished, I’m barely holding it together. Especially when it turns out he wasn’t finished after all.
The absurdity is just starting.
Staring at me, he clears his throat.
“Could I get—”
