“Who us?”
More laughter rumbling up in his chest before we fall quiet. My thoughts are zipping this way and that, processing what he shared about his parents, what he said about proving to me he won’t leave again. It’s a lot to unpack.
Time, he’d said.
I need time. We need time.
He’s right. And he’s also not.
Because, for better or for worse, that slender stalk of hope is no longer thin and breakable. It’s sturdy and strong and growing tall.
Eventually, I start to become aware of the other people in the bakery. It was mostly empty when we first came in because it was so early, but now the space is getting busy as people stop in for breakfast or one of Molly’s delicious coffees to go.
I push at his shoulders, stand.
Or try to, anyway.
Because Leo’s arms tighten around my middle, and he holds me in place.
Which, for the record, is still his lap, his hard thighs beneath me, his warm, hard chest pressed to my side, those strong arms wrapped taut.
And really, I’m not complaining.
I like it here.
“What are you doing?” he asks huskily.
“Going back to my chair.”
“Why?”
“Because”—I wave a hand around—“people.”
His mouth twitches. “So?”
I roll my eyes and push at his chest again. His arm tightens for the barest of a second before he releases me, that big hand of his sliding along my waist as I stand.
I shiver, heat blooming in my belly, between my thighs.
But I manage to make it on shaky legs back to my side of the table.
“Harp?” he asks when I pick up my apple turnover.
“Yeah?”
“Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
I fuss with the hem of my dress, smooth down the front, unreasonably nervous considering all the time Leo and I have already spent together, both naked and not.
But we’re having dinner.
Going out to dinner.
It’s not just one of us bringing takeout or cooking. It’s not eating together because we’ve gotten together with everyone else and food happens to be around.
It’s dinner.
It’s a date.
