Page 26 of If You Like It, I Love It

“You can’t take me out to dinner every night.”

“Well, I am the reason you don’t currently have a functioning stove.”

“I could order a pizza,” she offers.

“Can I still call it a date if we stay here and eat delivery pizza?”

“Who am I to tell an undercover Santa what he can and can’t do?”

I know an opening for another dirty reference when I see one. “How do you feel about a slutty little elf costume?”

“I’m not sure. I’d have to see it on you.”

She may have questionable taste in wallpaper, but I think she’s going to be one hell of a fun second date.

The pizza arrives in the nick of time—she almost has me convinced this bright yellow, floral wallpaper is the best option out of the samples she’s compiled. I started out campaigning for the pale blue stripes, but she threw my favorite in the veto pile before I could make a strong argument, saying, “Too whimsical.”

How is striped wallpaper too whimsical? The stripes aren’t even wavy. They’re perfectly symmetrical, unlike the floral pattern. And the shades of blue are barely different. If anything, that blue paper is calming.

But she was always going to choose those chaotic yellow flowers. They make her happy. Her eyes light up every time she looks at them. So, even though I’m not swayed to share her opinion, I tell her she should go with that one. And then the pizza mercifully shows up.

She’s probably going to debate her choice a dozen more times before she orders the wallpaper, but I know in my gut she’s not going to change her mind.

Her chosen wallpaper sample is the only one that remains on the dining room table after she shoves the others to the floor. She lays it carefully across one end of the table, and clears the rest of the space for us to eat our pizza.

Eating at the table is a more formal situation than I was hoping for, much less opportunity for casual touch than if we were to eat on the couch.

I rush to the door to bring in the pizza—and then I bypass the dining room and carry it straight to the living room instead.

She follows me, shaking her head. “After I went to all that trouble to clear the table, you want to eat in here?”

“Is that okay?”

“Feels a lot less date-like, don’t you think?” she teases.

I could listen to her laugh forever.

“I’m going to open the wine you brought.” She points toward the kitchen, stopping for a moment to add, “I don’t have beer, but I have a good bottle of whiskey if that appeals to you.”

“On certain occasions, but I’m good with water tonight.”

“Oh, sure. Make me drink alone.” She turns to face me as if she’s giving me a chance to change my mind.

“I couldn’t make you do a damn thing.”

“So wise for your age.”

“My age is adult. Your age is adult. We’re the same age. The numbers don’t matter.” I set the pizza box on her coffee table and lift the lid.

“You keep saying that.”

“And I’m not going to stop until you accept it.”

She plucks an olive off the pizza and pops it into her mouth with a smile before she goes to the kitchen to open the wine. I much prefer that over the worried expression she normally wears when the topic of our ages comes up.

“Has yellow always been your favorite color?” When she reappears, I slide over to give her more room in the middle of the couch—easier to reach the pizza on the coffee table. And if she sits on the very end, I won’t have an excuse to move closer to her.

“It’s actually not my favorite color, but yellow flowers might be my favorite, which I can’t explain. But then again, I’m a sucker for red shoes, and red’s not my favorite color either.”