“Dangerous thing to say to a man already reconsidering reservations.”
Her cheeks are faintly pink, and it immediately makes me want to find out just how hard I can make her blush. But she bites her lip and smooths her hands over her dress again, and I recompose myself enough to grab my keys and wallet from the counter.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Depends.” She glances up at me beneath her lashes. “Are you planning to behave in public?”
“Not a chance.”
That earns me another laugh as I open the front door and guide her through first. When we step outside and walk down the path, I keep my hand at the small of her back and don’t even think about moving it.
“You’re very handsy tonight,” she murmurs as we reach the sidewalk.
“Can you blame me? I’m on a date… with my girlfriend.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, but something softer crosses her face before she leans closer into my side. And that’s the part I savor the most.
***
The restaurant’s warm when we step inside, the air carrying the smell of garlic and something sweet baking in the back. String lights are woven through the beams overhead, soft enough that everything feels a little blurred around the edges.
They tuck us into a corner booth, close enough that our knees knock the second we sit down. She doesn’t move hers away, and I don’t either.
I watch as she traces the edge of the menu with her fingertip, chewing lightly on her bottom lip in concentration. It’s distracting as hell.
“What?” she says without looking up.
“You’re thinking too hard.”
“I like to know what I’m committing to.”
“It’s pasta, not a mortgage.”
She glances up with a smile. “You’d be surprised how seriously I take carbs.”
“Oh, I remember. You took about forty-five minutes to order a pastry at Flora’s that first morning.”
Her eyes sparkle as I share that memory, then she looks back down. When the waitress comes over, Penny hesitates between two dishes.
I watch her, amused. “Get the mushroom tagliatelle.”
Her brows lift. “Bossy.”
“Do you trust me?”
“With food?” she asks, her expression shifting.
“With anything.”
There’s a pause as her eyes hold mine before dropping back to the menu in front of her, then she closes it and hands it to the waitress. “Alright. I’ll trust the firefighter.”
After the waitress leaves, my knee presses into hers a little more firmly, and I reach out to stroke my thumb lightly over the inside of her wrist.
“You can trust me, Pen,” I say back just as quietly. “Promise.”
Promise.
She nods, and the conversation flows easier after that. She tells me about a teacher she had once, who insisted everyone in class write letters to their future selves. She gestures when she talks, hands moving through the air as if she’s shaping the story into life.
