“Hey,” I say back, and I know I’ve probably got the goofiest smile on my face, but I don’t even care.
He steps forward and puts his arms around me and draws me into a hug—and maybe that’s a little awkward, because he’s still holding this huge bunch of flowers and I can feel the cellophane crinkling against my back and the roses against my head, but I feel myself melt against him. I breathe in the scent of leather and roses and Kevin, and maybe it’s the freezing air against my bare arms and legs giving me goosebumps, but really I think it’s him. Being in his arms again, like I’ve wanted to be ever since I pulled away from that first—and so far, only—kiss.
I want to hold on like this forever. But I also want to do much more and tell him much more and get to go on a date with him.
We draw back and just look at each other again.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say. “I mean, not that I don’tseeyou fairly often, but . . . you know.” I flush, thinking of some new parts of him I have definitely seen, as of last night.
“Yeah,” he says, smiling back. “I know.” He shifts and holds out the bouquet. “Here.These are for you.”
“They’re beautiful,” I say, taking the flowers from him. “And you’re not so bad-looking yourself.” I suck my lips in and give him a very obvious looking-over. “Pretty damn hot, actually.”
He grins.“Yeah? Well, these flowers have nothing on you.” His expression turns softer, more serious. “Nothing does.”
My heart flutters. I may be standing in an open doorway in the middle of the winter in freaking Denver, but I’m warm all over.
“So, um, should we—” I start, at the same time he says, “So maybe we should—”
I let out short laugh. “Yeah. We should. I’ll put these inside and get my coat.” I set the roses on the table by the couch—my mom will see them when they get home and put them in some water—and grab a coat. Maybe I should invite him in, give him a tour of the house and all that, but I’m not sure when my family is getting home, and the last thing I want is to be interrupted by my parents.
Especially because I’m not sure how far we’d make it past the bedroom.
And more than just the threat of being caught by my parents like I’m some rebellious teenager, I have things I need to tell him first.
I close the door behind me, and without even thinking about it, I take his hand—or maybe he takes mine. It’s so natural and strange, all at the same time, but my fingers thread through his like they belong there, and the look he gives me makes me wonder if he’s thinking the same thing.
We get to the car, and he opens my door for me, which, unfortunately, reminds me ofTed just enough to give me a pang of guilt for what a dick I was to him—and also to Kevin, for not telling him aboutTed sooner.
Do I apologize again for that? Or probably I don’t want to bring my very-recently-ex-boyfriend into the conversation quite so soon. Or maybe at all?
My nerves, which had settled into a thrum of fluttery excitement at seeing him, are starting to build again.
Kevin gets in and starts the car and gives me another smile, and god, between the excitement and nerves I feel like a shaken can of Coke just waiting to be popped open before I explode everywhere.
Um.
“So I heard about this really good Italian restaurant,” he says, as the GPS on his phone directs him back out of my neighborhood. “Or, should I say, the grandma of this teenage fan who asked for a selfie with me at the airport told me about this really good Italian restaurant, and she mentioned their cannoli about six times, and she definitely seemed to know what she was talking about, and I had to look up what cannoli actually is, but—” He seems to realize he’s nervously rambling, and winces. “Maybe I should say, ‘Does Italian sound good, Maya?’”
I laugh, though probably that sounds just as nervous and charged as his rambling. “I don’t know. I kind of liked the intricate backstory for your restaurant selection. And yes. Italian sounds good.”
Great, in fact.Though pretty much anywhere with him would be.
He grins over at me. We drive in silence for a few moments after that, and my heart races.
“So should we . . .” I make a vague gesture with my hand, and realize that’s not helping explain anything. “Talk about things? Like, not just things in general, but, like,thingsthings.”
Fabulous, Maya. Way to sound like a competent adult making important life decisions.
He looks back over, his eyes crinkling at the sides as he smiles.Then his hand reaches over and rests on my knee, his thumb moving in circles on my leg, and it sets my whole body alight. “We’ll definitely talk aboutthingsthings, but let me take you to dinner first, okay?”
“Okay. Yeah.” I can see not wanting to get into all the implications of last night—of the fact that he’s here, and we’re on a date—while we’re still just driving to the restaurant. But it doesn’t make me any less jittery.
He transitions pretty smoothly—if quickly and apropos of nothing—into talking about the new Jordan Peele movie coming out, because Kevin knows what conversations are bound to distract me. It’s not the totally unselfconscious type of conversation we’d have over the phone or Skype, but it’s still a nice easing back into the comfort of the relationship I’m familiar with between us.
And he doesn’t take his hand from my knee.
When we get to the restaurant the valet takes our car and Kevin holds my hand as we walk in.The restaurant is a really nice one. Not pretentiously so, but still a clearly romantic, cozy setting. Small but not cramped, with a nice old-world-European feel mixed with modern touches (pendant lamps! JT would approve) and clean lines. Kevin apparently made a reservation from the airport, because the waiter sees us right to our table, which glows with flickering tea light candles, their light glinting off a small crystal vase with daisies and a small silver platter of crusty breads and olive oil.
