Margot wraps her fingers around my wrist and smiles at me. “There’s nothing wrong with chasing after something you want. From what you tell us, Warren is smitten with you, but if he’s been burned by a relationship before, he might need some gentle guidance and reassurance. It can be tough getting back out there for the first time.”
Willow side-eyes her mom. Neither of us says what we’re thinking. According to her loose-lipped daughter, Margot hasn’t gone on a date with a man, well, ever.
“I don’t want to push him. This is all so weird and backward. Maybe I’m coming off too strong?”
My phone dings, interrupting Margot’s response.
Warren: *photo of an ear of corn*
Warren: I’ve never liked corn until today.
I bite my lip. Without fail, he’s sent a photo every week holding whatever size fruit or vegetable our baby is.
Harriet: The first rule of parenting: be biased.
Harriet: Are we still on for Saturday?
Warren: Of course. I’ll pick you up.
Harriet: I can drive, you know.
Warren: I know. Your car is tiny. My truckis safer.
Harriet: One day, I’ll make you my passenger princess.
“Oh, I know that look. It’s the same face Willow makes whenever she sees the boy from across the street,” Margot teases.
“Seriously, Mom?” Willow abandons her book and stomps away.
Warren: If you’re not in any rush, maybe we can grab lunch before? I’d really like to talk.
My stomach drops. This can’t be good.
Harriet: I’ll never turn down food :)
Whatever happens, happens for a reason. I can push aside my feelings and be grownup about this. It’s just a crush. One that makes my chest ache and skin tingle, but it’ll pass.
It has to pass.
Warren holds the door open,gesturing for me to enter the small Italian restaurant first. Ever the gentleman. We chatted easily on the short car ride to the strip mall, a few miles outside of Iris Meadows. As usual, Warren is a blank page, his intentions entirely unreminiscent, and now, I have to spend the afternoon pretending a horny harlot isn’t trying to break free.
The only thing I’m looking for is the promise of cheesy, carby goodness. I studied the menu on the way over, and once we’re seated, I’m eager to place our orders. My hunger is so distracting, it’s only when a bread basket is placed on the table,I notice how romantic the interior is. Dinner by candlelight. The soft strings of a cello. A small table making it impossible to avoid Warren’s intense gaze.
“This is nice,” I observe. “Have you eaten here before?”
He shakes his head and pushes the bread my way, leaving his hand to rest on the red-and-white checked tablecloth. “Diana recommended it. She and Marcus like to come here when they’re Freddie-free.”
I try—and fail—not to look too closely into that.
Five minutes pass. I devour half of the focaccia. He watches me with a fond smile.
I probably have herbs in my teeth.
“Please eat some before I inhale the entire basket.”
His lips stretch wider. He’s always good looking, but with the dim flicker of the candle casting shadows over his face, wearing his rare smile, he’s unfairly handsome. It’s the glimpse of relaxed joy that really lures me in. Not even a week ago, I felt that smile against the side of my neck right before he kissed me silly.
“I’m enjoying myself,” he replies.
