Page 17 of If You Like It, I Love It

I try not to bring up my remodel, but when I slip and mention my new appliances, I quickly joke, “Well, now that we’ve discussed business, you can write this meal off on your taxes.”

“I’m not looking to write off any time I spend with you.”

“You know I’m too old for you, right?”

“Age is just a number. But whatever your number is, it’s not too old.”

“It’s thirty-nine.”

“I’m twenty-eight. We’re practically the same age.”

He’s sweet. And beautiful. And entirely wrong.

“You were in kindergarten when I lost my virginity.”

“So that’s what caused the disturbance in the atmosphere that knocked me off the slide that day.”

I try not to laugh, but damn, he’s witty.

“Not unless you were on the playground at midnight.”

“Not when I was five. But just to put my mind at ease, you didn’t really have sex for the first time on a slide, did you?”

“No. It was in a recliner.”

“Risky. I hope nobody fell off.”

“Surprisingly, there were no injuries. Hope you didn’t get hurt falling off the slide.”

“Just my pride.”

“Yeah, mine might’ve gotten a little bruised in that recliner, too.”

We laugh with no regard for the disruption it might cause, not even a modest attempt to be quiet or respectful, just boisterous and uninhibited laughter until my eyes water.

This is how dates are supposed to be. Two people meet, they get to know each other, and see where it goes.

I feel like this night has the potential to go somewhere it shouldn’t. But what if Sabrina and Glynnis are right about a fling being harmless? Who am I to think I hold the power to break this guy’s heart, anyway? I can be a little stubborn at times, but as far as I know, I’ve never ruined anyone’s life.

He’s grown—over a decade less grown than I am, but that’s still an adult. It’s not like I’m some desperate older woman who’s going to get pathetically attached to him. I’ve never been codependent, not even in my twenties. Enzo’s not that type either.

If only we could’ve put this date off until after my renovation was done, the situation would’ve been a lot less complicated.

But he showed up with that damn bag of rice, and my closed heart opened like a recliner at maximum tilt. The gesture knocked me off-kilter before I realized what was happening. It was so sweet. A little silly. Completely unpretentious.

Then he hit me with that deep voice, promising nothing that happens on this date will be an accident . . .

Let’s just say it caused a disturbance in my atmosphere. It definitely felt like I fell off something, that’s for sure.

The server presents the dessert tray. Everything looks delicious, an array of temptations that shouldn’t be so appealing after the generous portion of pasta I nearly finished, but one look and my mouth waters for a taste of every option.

We decide to share the chocolate torte. It’s rich and creamy, a flawless balance of bitter and sweet. I’ve had this torte before, and I’ve always enjoyed it, but it seems elevated tonight, even more satisfying than I remember.

I’d lick the fork after my last bite, but I may have already made a soft, barely audible, but borderline obscene sound when I took the first bite, and I’m opting to retain what’s left of my dignity here.

To his credit, Enzo responded to my wanton purr with nothing more than a slow smile and a nod of agreement. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since, though. I’ve never been observed so intently from across a table, or maybe anywhere.

We’ve learned some things about each other on this date: we have a similar sense of humor, the same taste in dessert, and if his eyes are to be believed, we are equally curious about what the rest of this night might reveal.