Page 16 of If You Like It, I Love It

“No, but I was just teasing about not being able to cook until this weekend, just giving you a hard time.”

“I’m not teasing about dinner. Let’s go eat.”

“I, um, we probably shouldn’t.”

“Why shouldn’t we? I promise no inappropriate accidents.”

“Well, if you’re just going to be boring, why would I go?”

“I never said anything about being boring. I just said there wouldn’t be any accidents.”

“Give me five minutes to change?”

“You look perfect to me, but I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.”

I’ve bought a lot of bags of rice, but this is the first time one has ever gotten me a date.

8

Joni

Without asking where I want to have dinner, Enzo drives us out of town to Rose Creek. It’s only twenty minutes from Grinberry Falls, but that’s far enough to cut the chances of running into anyone we know on a weeknight.

I don’t think he cares who sees us together, but I’m sure he knows I’ll be more comfortable if we can keep this dinner out of the rumor mill.

Rose Creek also has better restaurant options, including my favorite Italian place, which is apparently where we’re going.

“How’d you know I like Lombardo’s?”

“Does anyone not like this place? Great Italian food, steaks, good beer and wine selection . . . you didn’t think I’d take you to a dump on our first date, did you?”

D-d-what? He thinks this is a date? Oh, shit. This is a date.

I haven’t been on a dinner date in . . . since Bryan. Not any kind of real date. Glynnis called it correctly. I’ve had encounters, not date-dates. I know how to meet for a drink and go from there, not sit across from each other with a white tablecloth between us, lingering over fresh pasta and wine, engaging in meaningful conversation . . . I don’t even know what to talk about on a real date.

“We might not be able to get in without a reservation,” I say.

“I made a reservation while you were changing your clothes.”

“You got a table at Lombardo’s at the last minute?”

“It’s a weeknight. Never hurts to try. Guess I got lucky.” He puts the truck in park and gets out.

I have my door halfway open when he appears and takes over the task, offering his hand to help me out of his truck. I drive a truck, too. I’m used to hopping down out of one on my own, but I guess that’s not date-date appropriate behavior, so I accept his help.

His hand is strong and warm, thick fingers, prominent veins. This is the first time we’ve ever touched, and my brain is cataloguing every sensory and physical detail . . . until the illusion of first touch bursts like a delicate bubble.

This hand has definitely touched me before, just not above water. My gaze drops to ensure my feet land on solid ground. And to hide my flushed cheeks.

The first time he touched me I couldn’t see his hand—not until it was dripping bubbles onto my bathroom rug. It’s a damn nice hand. He’s released mine now that I’ve safely exited his truck. Bold of him to assume I can walk without assistance at the moment.

I manage to take a step, and he steps next to me. He opens the restaurant door and holds it for me to enter ahead of him, but again, he quickly steps beside me once we’re inside.

As we approach the hostess stand, he settles his palm at the small of my back so naturally, as if we always move through the world connected like this. Anyone looking up from their table wouldn’t be able to see the subtle quake this particular touch initiates in my core, the tiny tremble it causes in my legs.

Enzo’s not a wine drinker. I just learned this about him. I’d forgotten that part of a first date, or dating in general. The getting-to-know-each-other phase can be treacherous, but he’s easy to talk to.

He orders a beer to pair with his Osso Buco, and I have cabernet with my Bolognese.