“It’s a good thing we’re twins. I was actually able to follow that. Okay, maybe hold off on a bouquet and just take a single flower.”
“I like that. Thanks, Golds.”
“That’s it? You’re not gonna tell me anything else about her?”
“I don’t want to jinx it. She’s really hot and smart and funny…so sexy.”
“Okay, okay. I’m good with all that info, thanks.” She laughs again. “Let me know how it goes. And Tully, you know your too much is just right…right?”
I grin. “Says my twin. Love you.”
The restaurant is this classy little Italian spot downtown—candlelight and white tablecloths. No hockey-bro dive bar bullshit.
When Lola walks in, my brain short-circuits. She’s in a black dress that hugs every curve, tattoos curling out from the neckline like they’re daring me to stare. Her hair’s down in loose waves, and she’s swapped those boots for heels that make her legs look illegal. And fuck me, was that a flash oftattoo I just saw? I want to slide her dress up her thigh to see. She spots me at the corner booth and smiles like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I stand and pull out her chair, handing her a rose that’s a deep, velvety purple.
“For you,” I say.
She smiles and sits down, looking up at me. “Thank you. You clean up nice.”
I laugh, holding my collar out slightly to breathe easier. “You’re killing me in that dress. Stunning.”
“Thank you,” she says softly.
We order—pasta for her, steak for me, and wine that tastes expensive and makes her cheeks flush pink after the first glass. The conversation flows easily. She teases me about the party (“Coach still hasn’t found out?”), I tease back (“You didn’t seem to mind crashing!”), and we both laugh a lot.
My chest started doing that stupid racing thing the minute she walked into the room.
Then the comedy starts.
Halfway through appetizers, the waiter—a nervous kid who looks like he’s on his first shift—trips over absolutely nothing. His tray goes airborne. A full carafe of red wine rockets toward our table like a missile.
I lunge to shield Lola instinctively, but physics has other plans. The carafe clips the edge of the table, explodes in slow motion, and drenches us both. Wine everywhere—my white shirt instantly see-through, her black dress now glistening like it’s been dipped in merlot.
The kid freezes, horrified. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry?—”
Lola blinks once, twice. Then she bursts out laughing. Not polite giggles—full, uncontrollable laughter that makes her clutch the table.
I look down at myself—shirt clinging, wine dripping off my chin—and start laughing too. Hard.
The waiter stammers his apologies, offering napkins and club soda and free desserts.
Lola waves him off, still cracking up. “It’s fine, seriously.”
I grab a stack of napkins and dab at her arm where wine’s running down her skin. My fingers brush hers, and she doesn’t pull away. She looks at me, eyes bright, her mascara smudged just a little from laughing so hard.
“You okay?” I ask, voice softer now. “Sorry about that.”
She laughs again. “I’m okay. I feel worse for that poor guy…and your shirt. This dress is old, no big deal.” She sighs. “You don’t know how bad I needed that laugh.”
“Yeah?” I wipe a drop of wine from her cheek with my thumb.
Our eyes lock, and the air shifts, suddenly charged. Her lips part like she’s about to say something smart-assed, but instead she leans in, slow.
“You’re soaked,” she murmurs.
“You too.”
