“They’re your favorite. If you win, I’ll buy you a box of the best salted caramels in town.”
The stakes are simple and real. They aren’t showy or trash-talky. “I do love salted caramel,” I say, then finish the fry.
“I know. You had a hard time not stealing Leighton’s.”
“You remembered?”
“I did,” he says, then takes a bite of his chicken sandwich.
And I’m touched. Surprised too. But am I really surprised? He seems to be remembering things left and right.
“You have a good memory, Rowan,” I say, then let the food distract me.
“I do, but I also remember things that are important to me,” he says—and my stomach flips. “Like you want to go to Kauai on New Year’s.”
Color me impressed. “So I can melt onto the beach and do nothing,” I say.
“You deserve that. And how you like to go to the farmers’ market and that Wild Ginger vegetarian restaurant in the Ferry Building.”
“Yes. Wow.”
“Like I said, I remember things that are important. Like salted caramels.”
“Which brings us back to what are the stakes if you win?”
“Oh, salted caramels satisfy me too,” he says.
“It’s a bet, then,” I say.
He offers a hand to shake and I take it, trying to ignore the tingles that rush down my chest from the feel of his hand touching mine.
When he lets go he reaches for the milkshake glass. “Want the first sip?”
“Sure,” I say, then lean closer and sip from the metal straw, hoping he somehow leans in and drinks at the same time.
Great. Now I’m having some kind ofLady and the Trampfantasies.This is getting to be a problem.
As we eat and drink—noLady and the Trampsharing after all—we talk more about the competition, our next practice date, scheduled for two nights’ time, Evergreen Falls, and what Mia’s up to tonight. She’s spending the evening with some friends in town, making wreaths and paper snowflakes. It’s only when we’re halfway through dinner that I say, “You know, I had this whole plan about how we should make sure you’re real and authentic on a date, but honestly, I’m pretty sure you are tonight.”
“I am,” he says. “I’m definitely being real.”
I don’t even pretend to argue with him. I just agree, because my pulse is kicking up again, and this time I don’t want it to stop. “You are. This is how you should be.”
“It’s easy with you.”
My stomach flips again. “Because I’m a matchmaker? Because you know me?”
He takes his time. Locks eyes with me. Holds my gaze. “Yeah, but also because you’reyou.”
The sparks are everywhere in me. Pretty sure I’m all sparks.
I take another drink of the milkshake, then offer it tohim, furtively staring at his lips. How do they taste right now? Like chocolate and a cool winter night made warm from all my unchecked desire?
As we finish, a band sets up in the corner of the diner. I tense—it’s the tension you feel from hope—the hope that a date won’t end.
I want it to keep going.
Maybe he senses that. Or maybe he just wants the same thing I do, because he glances at the band—three strong guys in T-shirts that sayThe Mistle Bros.
