Seven-thirty. Park Slope. Sorella.
I could do this.
The restaurant looked exactly like its photos. Warm lighting, exposed brick, intimate without being pretentious. Through the windows, I could see couples leaning across tables, wine glasses catching the candlelight.
My hands were sweating.
I wiped them on my jeans, took a breath, and pushed through the door.
Ellis was already there.
He stood near the host stand, and my brain short-circuited for a second. Dark jeans, a charcoal gray sweater that hugged his lean frame, those hazel eyes finding mine across the restaurant. He smiled, that careful smile I was starting to recognize, and the knot in my chest released.
“Hey.” I crossed to him, hyperaware of how I looked, how I smelled, how I was standing. “Sorry, am I late?”
“Right on time.” His gaze traveled over me, and I caught the flicker of appreciation. “You look… really good.”
“Thanks. You, too.” Understatement of the century. He looked incredible. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Five minutes. I’m always early for everything. Anxiety trait.”
“I respect that.”
The host appeared, a woman with kind eyes and an Italian accent that might’ve been fake but sounded charming, anyway. “Table for two?”
Ellis nodded, and she led us through the restaurant to a corner booth.Intimate, private, the spot you asked for when you actually wanted to talk to your date instead of shouting over background noise.
We slid into opposite sides of the booth, and we were alone. Candle between us. The reality of actually being on a date filling the space.
“So.” Ellis’ mouth twitched.
“So,” I echoed.
We both laughed. Better.
“I’m nervous.” Ellis turned his wine glass by the stem. “Is that weird to just say out loud?”
“No. I’m nervous, too.”
“Really?” His eyebrows rose. “You don’t seem nervous.”
“I’m very good at faking it.” I leaned back against the booth. “My friends staged an intervention this afternoon to help me get ready. I tried on approximately forty outfits.”
“Forty?”
“Might’ve been fifty. I lost count.” I gestured at what I ended up wearing. “This was a group decision.”
“Tell them they chose well.”
The waiter appeared with menus and a wine list, launching into specials that I barely heard because I was too focused on the fact Ellis hadn’t looked away.
“Do you drink wine?” he asked after the waiter left.
“Sometimes. I’m not like, a wine person, but I can appreciate a good one.”
“Me neither. I just know I like reds better than whites.” He scanned the menu. “We could share a bottle? Or is that presumptuous?”
“That sounds good.”
