Page 20 of Love in the Time of Conversation Hearts

“How long have you been standing there?”

His low chuckle should be disconcerting, but instead it soothes me, like a balm to my jittery soul. “I’d never eavesdrop on a private conversation, if that’s what you’re implying.”

I take a step back from him, immediately regretting the loss of his hands on me, even though I’m glad for the space that allows me to think a little more clearly. “I’m not implying anything.”

He eyes me up and down, and there’s that smirk again. Was Lauren right? Is that expression loaded with more than his characteristic brashness?

“Okay,” he says slowly. “You ran out of the session so fast, I thought you might have had too many of those bean burritos at lunch. I came to check on you.”

I wince at the memory of Mr. Bean Burrito’s bathroom visit. “My burrito intake was responsible and appropriate, thank you.”

A genuine laugh falls from his lips, and the sound of it is decadent like hot chocolate. I shiver despite the warm gooeyness taking over my insides.

“Well, the conference food sucks,” he says, “and if I have to do more schmoozing at cocktail hour tonight, I think I might combust.” He hooks a hand around the back of his neck and rubs there, suddenly looking almost sheepish. “I was thinking… would you want to go out to dinner tonight? I know a great Italian place nearby. Easy to get to, now that the storm has cleared up. And I promise, no talking about work.”

“Oh, um…” I trail off. Between my revelation and Lauren’s suggestions, I’m completely off-balance. A probably romantic Italian dinner sounds lovely, but also dangerous. Then again, so is his hand at the small of my back and the useless barrier of pillows we’ve tried to set up between us. I straighten as I tug at the hem of my shirt to adjust it. “Shouldn’t we do some more networking? That is why we’re here, after all,” I say with much more confidence than I feel.

“We’re here to learn about leadership and downtown beautification, which we did today. A lot. Come on, Cora. Don’t you ever break any rules?” He winks at me then, and the motion that usually irritates the shit out of me now feels special. Like a private, inside joke.

Trying to keep up my façade of being unaffected by him, I roll my eyes. “Fine. But dinner and drinks are on you.”

La Dolce Italia is an adorable little place with a red awning over a large, oak door. The inside of the restaurant is made to look like a patio in Venice, complete with a mural of gondolas floating on the Grand Canal.

We are seated right away, and Adam orders wine for the table almost as quickly. The wine list is extensive, so I’m glad he seems to know what’s good. I wouldn’t have the first clue where to start.

We study the menu for longer than necessary, the only noise the clatter of silverware against the plates of the other diners. We order our food, then sip our wine—something rich and dark red—in silence for a while before I inevitably break.

“So, what got you started in risk analysis?” I ask.

Adam pins me with a look over his wine glass. “I promised you we wouldn’t talk about work.”

I scoff. “I figured you meant our work. Not what you do outside the mayor’s office.”

He shrugs at this and swirls the liquid in his glass. He studies it while humming softly. “Work is work.”

“Fine.” I huff. “What do you do for fun?”

“Torture you at city council meetings, mostly,” he quips. At my cocked eyebrow, his full lips tug into a half-smile, and he takes a piece of bread from the basket at the center of the table. “I ski, sometimes. And, uh…” He tears the bread in half and pops a piece into his mouth. “I write,” he says around his mouthful.

The sip of wine I just took gets stuck in my throat, and I cough to dislodge it. “I’m sorry,” I say, lightly hitting my chest. “You write?”

Adam’s mouth forms a thin line, but his gray eyes sparkle with humor. “Don’t act so surprised.”

“Okay, but ‘write’ is a pretty broad term. What do you write? Poetry? Novels?” My eyes widen, and I lean forward. “Do you write steamy MM romance under a secret pen name? I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

He chuckles, popping the other torn piece of bread into his mouth and chewing. “No, nothing exciting like that. I mostly write op-eds for newspapers. But I did have a stint in college where I wrote some truly terrible poetry.”

Our food is delivered, temporarily interrupting the conversation. The waiter tops off our wine, and we both take a quiet sip before I say, “I’d pay a lot of money to read twenty-year-old Adam Sullivan’s poetry.”

“Mmm,” he hums as he swallows some pasta. “I bet you would.” A bit of sauce lands on his lips, and I have to fight the urge to reach over the table and wipe it off just to feel if his lips are as soft as they look. Luckily, he catches it with his napkin.

A piece of fettuccine slips off my fork as I twirl it around. I gently push it back, conveniently avoiding looking at him for a moment to gather myself. “What got you started writing?”

“We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Military brat,” he explains. “I spent a lot of time with my mom. You might have guessed she’s really special to me. I told her all my thoughts. She was basically a saint, listening to me talk and talk.”

“I can relate,” I remark sardonically.

He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. “When I was about ten, she bought me a notebook and a pen, and the rest is history.”