He steps back to stand behind me, his hand finding its way back to my waist. “I don’t think you’ve met my girlfriend. This is Oakleigh. Cherry, this is Mickey, the head chef here.”
Mickey directs his smile at me, a genuine boyish smile that forces my lips to stretch into a similar one. He holds his hand out to me. “We haven’t met, but rest assured, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All bad, I hope,” I jest.
“Oh, definitely. Finn here wouldn’t shut up about you when he was fixing up the kitchen. Kept saying how you were the—what was it, Finn?—the most annoying yet perfect woman you’d ever met?”
I whip my head to look at my fake boyfriend, shock stilting the regular beats of my heart. “You said perfect?”
His blush deepens. “I may have said something along those lines.”
“You’ve got yourself a good one here, Oakleigh,” Mickey continues, seemingly oblivious to my surprise.
“I’m inclined to believe you,” I reply, hoping that the words sound lighthearted.
Mickey’s blue eyes lighten as his smile deepens.
“I saw the reservation on the system and saved you the best table.” He motions toward a table in the middle of the far wall, the nearby fireplace bathing it in warm light and heat. Even though it’s the middle of summer, there is a chill in this restaurant, so I’m so grateful for the seating placement.
The entire setup looks so romantic—a single red rose in a vase in the center, seats adjacent to one another, low lighting giving that little extra bit of privacy. In any other situation, I would be filled with excitement and anticipation, but right now, as I sit down in the seat that Finn pulls out for me—closest to the fire—I feel nothing but consternation and confusion. Being alone with Finn lately has been an experience, to be sure, sometimes good, sometimes my worst nightmare, but this kind of atmosphere makes me think of when he caught me eavesdropping that first night he stayed round. The light was low just like this, the tension pulling us closer as I feel it might tonight.
I feel a need to destroy the moment, somehow, but I know that I can’t. Not when we’re surrounded by some of Eaglewood’s residents, who will easily be spreading this around town as soon as possible.
For the first five minutes, we’re quiet—me trying to grow accustomed to this new atmosphere that surrounds us, and Finn finding newfound interest in his napkin.
I’m not just trying to acclimatize to the tingle of romance that burns around us like the candles along the walls, but also this familiar ghost of something between Finn and me; something that’s old and unresolved. It tickles the bare skin of my arms making me shiver.
“You cold?” Finn asks.
“A little,” I reply, my white lie feeling considerably better on my tongue than the truth.
Without even a moment’s hesitation, Finn’s up on his feet, shucking his shirt off of his shoulders.
I hold up a hand to stop him. “Oh, you really don’t need to do tha?—”
“Don’t be silly, Cherry.” He slips the shirt off completely, leaving him the perfect distraction to wrap it over my own shoulders.
Hello, forearms.
I watch, entranced as the muscles along Finn’s arms flex and strain as he moves. I follow every movement like I’m being hypnotized, completely locked on the way his tee hugs the curves of his biceps, emphasizing just how big Finn really is. I’m pretty sure they call Finn’s body type a sleeper body.
My breath hitches as he reaches up to scratch the back of his neck.
“You know, I’m pretty sure there’s a saying or two about moments like this.”
I snap out of my daze to find a smirking Finn watching me.
“What?”
He huffs out a quiet chuckle. “Something about taking a picture?”
That snaps me out completely. “Oh, shut up.”
“You’re allowed to stare, Cherry. If it pleases you, then stare all you want. It is technically all yours, after all.”
As our starters are placed in front of us by the waiter, my focus drifts to Finn’s subtle implication. Or, at least what I think was a subtle implication.
Intimacy.
