At the Seinfeld restaurant.
The actual one, with the neon sign and those old fashioned booths.
The laminated menus that haven’t changed since 1993.
Colt laughs when I admit I’ve always wanted to come here but never had the nerve to drag a date who wasn’t already a sitcom nerd.
“I’m honored to be your extremely jacked Seinfeld date,” he says, sliding into the booth across from me.
I pretend not to notice the older couple at the next table giving us a curious once-over.
Probably trying to figure out how a woman who looks 39 is sitting across from a man who looks like he was carved by an NFL sculptor.
I don’t care.
I’m glowing. Not to mention starving.
Colt flips open the menu like he already knows it by heart.
“So,” he says, “which character is the best?”
I narrow my eyes. “You have to answer first.”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “I’m not falling for that trap. You go.”
“Elaine,” I say immediately. “I mean, come on. Elena, Elaine…”
“Wow,” he says, leaning back. “Zero hesitation.”
“She’s iconic. Chaotic. Confident. Never apologizes for being herself. Great hair. Also? She can dance.”
He puts a hand to his heart. “Dancing is important to you?”
I sip my coffee. “I like a man who doesn’t take himself too seriously.”
He hums, staring at me with this look that’s becoming something more than just dangerous.
He seems like he’s memorizing everything I say.
“And your answer?” I ask, pretending not to notice the way his eyes keep drifting to my lips.
“Kramer.”
I actually choke.
“Kramer?” I gasp. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah.” He grins. “He’s weird. Creative. Loyal. Always cooking up something wild. Always shows up for his friends when it counts. And he’s a little unhinged, which I appreciate.”
“That’s your aspiration?” I tease. “To be a little unhinged?”
“Only for you,” he shoots back, and the way he says it—quiet, sincere—makes heat curl low in my stomach.
Our waiter arrives and we order.
Colt getstwomeals, obviously, because he’s a human furnace.
I get one. He gives me a look.
