16
CLARK
My dinner datewith April on Friday comes at me like a flaming Zamboni. Somehow creeping along yet on fire.
I pick her up and when she opens her apartment door, I drool a little.
April, who generally lives in jeans and hoodies, is wearing a dress. It’s soft purple—lavender, like my favorite blouse of hers—and it clings to her figure in ways that make me thinkWow.
The world has been missing out. Never mind. I don’t want her to share any of what I see with anyone, so better to keep her hidden under my oversized hoodies. Yes, mine. Yes, I’m being possessive. This is April, we’re talking about.
Her curls are down, tumbling over her shoulders. She’s wearing makeup, but not too much. Just enough to make her eyes look warmer, her lips look even more kissable.
Like a goaltender blocking a puck, I tell myself to stop thinking about her lips.
“Is this okay?” she asks, doing a little turn. “Too much? Not enough? I can change?—”
“You are perfect,” I say with maximum confidence. “I mean, it’s perfect. The dress. You look ... really nice.”
“Nice?”
“Pretty. Beautiful. You look beautiful,” I say, thoughts still stunned as I come back to the truth.
Her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Thanks. You look good, too.”
I glance at my button-down and dress pants. Standard date attire. Nothing special. But the way she’s looking at me makes me feel like I just won the game in overtime.
“Shall we?” I offer my arm.
She loops hers through mine, and we head down to where my Maserati is parked. Because if we’re doing a public date, we might as well do it right. Plus, I’ve noticed that although she likes the Jeep, she wears a little smirk when we’re in my sports car. I’d like to believe she’s thinkingEat your heart out, Posh!
The drive to Spaglietti’s in Cobbiton isn’t long, and I spend every second acutely aware of April sitting next to me. The way she fidgets with her purse strap. The soft scent of her lilac perfume filling the car. How I could put my hand on her knee if I stretched my arm a bit.
She lets out a stilted breath as if this is a few notches higher on the fake dating meter than our appearance at the adoption event.
“Remember,” I say as we pull into the parking lot, “just be yourself.”
“Be myself. Got it.” She takes a deep breath. “We can do this.”
“We absolutely can.”
Spaglietti’s is packed, as expected for a Friday night. The hostess leads us to a corner table with a perfect view of the restaurant and, more importantly, a perfect view for everyone to see us.
There’s already a photographer set up discreetly near the bar.
“This is surreal,” April whispers as we slide into the booth.
“Just focus on me. Pretend they’re not here.”
“Hard to do when there’s a camera pointed at us.”
I smirk. “Then let’s give them something to photograph.”
Her eyebrows jolt.
I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are clammy, nervous. I rub my thumb across her knuckles, trying to calm her.
“Better?” I ask.
