As she grasps the menu again and gazes down at it, I spot a brush of color fanning over her cheekbones. She orders starters and two pasta dishes to share, and I can’t help noticing that her Italian is a little halting now, as if her mind is half elsewhere. To my surprise, she reaches for my hand again after the server walks away and props her chin on one palm.
“This is fun,” she says, almost shy. “You don’t seem to mind the suit too much…”
I regard my sleeve. “I’d nearly forgot I was wearing it. Good company will do that.”
“You make it look sexy. Or else everyone here is too polite to stare.” Her eyes narrow. “Maybe I took you to the wrong spot, eh? I should’ve dragged you to a club.”
“I’m afraid dancing goes in the same column as foreign languages for me.”
“You suck at it?” she says with a kind of euphoria, sitting up straight. “Holy balls, Sandy. All that shit you flipped me about being clumsy, and you can’t even dance?”
“Not vertically,” I quip, unable to restrain a wink.
She rolls her eyes and snort-laughs. “Okay, whatareyou skilled at, aside from the obvious?”
“Ah,the obvious? You think I’m good at…”
“Yes, writing and origami,” she teases. “Oh, and you know about rare jazz, I guess. What else?”
I brush my thumb across her knuckles, pleased that she’s still letting me hold her hand. “I play piano well. I started when I was three and still work on it quite a lot, so one might say I’m a dab hand.”
“Will you play for me when we get back from dinner?”
“Certainly.” I give her a slow smile. “I more than owe you a reciprocal performance after you demonstrated your dancing prowess in Melbourne.”
For a half minute we watch each other, our eyes telegraphing memories of that night. Oddly, the recollection affects me as a blooming warmth in my chest more than in my lap. I want to see her again like that, raw and boundless as she was with me, everything about her new as spring. The heat of her breath, the unrestrained pressure of her fingers, the crackling hints of emotion in her voice. The fulfillment of holdingallof her, being engaged with her tip to toes, from the disarray of her stormy hair to her small feet as they flexed with arousal.
She pulls her head back, eyes startled as the intensity of the moment appears to rattle her. Those honey-dark eyes widen.
I let her hand go before she feels the need to withdraw and turn the subject to lighter things—books and movies. As starters arrive and we dig into bruschetta, I confess that I typically tell people my favorite films areLawrence of Arabia,The Godfather Part II, andSeven Samurai, but in reality they’reMonty Python and the Holy Grail,What We Do in the Shadows, andGroundhog Day.
Next, sharing a plate of stuffed squash blossoms, we have a good-natured debate over whether Hemingway was a genius or a bullying drunk bastard (a bit of both, we end up agreeing), and whether Margaret Atwood is more brilliant as a poet or a novelist (again, both—who could choose?).
As we’re eating communally off two plates of pasta, Sage falls quiet, holding my eyes for a long moment with a bewildered-yet-heated look that takes my breath away.
I set my fork down. “Salvi, pet. What is it?”
She shakes her head. “Shit, I don’t know. I kinda dig you, Sandy.” She jabs at a chunk of olive on one of the plates. “I mean, I feel calm around you. Usually my brain is going a million miles an hour, but, uh…” She shrugs. “You slow me down. In a good way.”
A squall of emotions grips me, temporarily paralyzing my ability to respond. I’m flattered, grateful, humbled by the trust she’s put in me, the man who mere months ago antagonized her in a boorish campaign to draw her attention. I want to tell her she’s both nothing like I expected and a thousand times more complex and fascinating than I’d imagined, and that I like hermorefor that fact. I want to confess that I’ve never had a strong sense of myself, but I feel like I know exactly who I am when I’m with her. She’s the North Star, the equator, the prime meridian. She’s a universal constant, like the speed of light or the value of pi.
Instead, I artlessly manage, “Thank you. I’m pleased to hear it.”
Fuckin’ hell, could I be more tiresomely British?
She hums a laugh. “Yeah, well. I’m surprised by you, not gonna lie. I had you pegged for a useless nepo-baby douche, but… you’re funny and smart, and youask questions. It’s depressing how many guys don’t. You’re interested in what I think, not just what I do.”
“Your every detail, as I discover them,” I tell her, turning her hand palm-up and smoothing along her lifeline with both thumbs, gently kneading, “is more bewitching to me than the last. You’re a treasure house I could explore forever.”
She closes her hand over my thumbs. “Oh, bullshit. Now you’re just making fun of me.”
I capture her gaze, and I must look quite serious, the way the smile fades from her lips. Her eyes widen.
“I’m gravely earnest, Salvi. If I’ve said too much… well, there’s no taking it back. Cards on the table. I’ve never known anyone like you and I won’t bother pretending I’m not besotted.”
She chews at her lower lip, then breaks the tension with a breezy laugh, releasing my hand to pick up her water glass. I’m sure I’ve cocked things up irreparably by coming on too strong and she’s either going to take the piss or pretend I didn’t say it. But after a sip of water and the slow, pensive chewing of an ice cube, she meets my eyes.
“I must be a tiny bit smitten too, because… that fucking suit would scare away any sane person, but it isn’t slowing me down. Let’s go back to your place and make out.”
