I’m struck by how natural this all feels. Talking to her. Making her laugh. Skating side by side like we’ve done it a hundred times before.
I don’t want this to end.
“Hey,” I say, gathering my courage. “Do you want to grab some dinner? There’s a great little Italian place just around the corner.”
She pauses, looking up at me with those bright blue eyes, and for a second, I think I’ve misread everything. But then she smiles—a genuine smile that reaches her eyes.
“I’d like that,” she says. “Italian sounds perfect.”
Chapter Five
Brittany
The tiny Italian café greets us with a rush of warm air scented with garlic, tomato, and freshly baked bread. After the biting cold of the skating rink, it feels like stepping into another world—one where my breakup with Cal doesn’t exist, where I’m not temporarily homeless, and where Weston’s smile as he holds the door for me somehow makes everything seem a little less …broken.
I’m still trying to reconcile this confident, handsome man with the awkward boy I barely knew in college. The boy with the glasses who used to hang around my big brother has transformed into someone who makes my heart flutter in ways I’m definitely not ready to acknowledge.
I’m not datinganyoneanytime soon.
“This place is adorable,” I say as we follow the hostess through the dimly-lit restaurant filled with small tables covered in checkered cloths and flickering candles. Frank Sinatra croons softly from hidden speakers.
“I found it by accident during a lunch break a few years ago,” Weston says, his voice close behind me. “Best mistake I ever made.”
The hostess leads us to a corner booth partially secluded by a decorative wine rack. It feels intimate without being overtly romantic, which is … perfect, for whatever this is.
“Thank you,” I tell her as she hands us our menus.
As I slide into the booth, I realize I’m still wearing my beanie and hurriedly pull it off, probably leaving my hair looking like a static-charged disaster. I run my fingers through the blonde strands, attempting to tame them while Weston shrugs out of his puffy jacket.
“You don’t have to fix your hair,” he says, catching me mid-primp. “It looks nice like that—natural.”
I feel my cheeks warm, and it’s not because of the restaurant’s heater. “Thanks. I guess I’m just used to having it perfectly put together for work. Courtrooms aren’t exactly forgiving of bedheads.”
“I can’t imagine having to be ‘on’ like that all day,” he says, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. “I’m pretty sure half the guys I work with at my office haven’t combed their hair since 2018, I think.”
I laugh, picturing a room full of disheveled programmers. “That sounds amazing, honestly. Sometimes I dream about showing up to court in sweatpants.”
“You could start a trend,” he suggests, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Power sweats. Very authoritative.”
The waiter appears at our table, and Weston asks if I’d like wine. I nod, grateful for something to ease the lingering nervousness I feel.
“Red or white?” he asks.
“Red, definitely,” I reply.
Weston smiles. “A Montepulciano then,” he tells the waiter, who nods approvingly.
“Good choice, sir.”
As the waiter walks away, I raise an eyebrow. “Wow, I didn’t know you were such a wine guy.”
Weston adjusts his collar. “I’m not … it’s just one of three wines I can pronounce without embarrassing myself.”
I laugh, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Well, you pulled it off perfectly.”
We fall into an easy conversation about the menu, debating the merits of classic spaghetti versus more adventurous options. Under the table, our knees accidentally touch, sending a jolt of awareness through me. We both shift quickly, creating a careful distance.
The wine arrives, and as we clink glasses, I find myself studying his face—the strong jawline, the bright blue eyes that seem to notice everything. He looks nothing like the nerdy college kid I vaguely remember. This version of Weston fills a space with quiet confidence, even as he makes self-deprecating jokes about his skating abilities.
