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My arms lift to his neck, pulling him in with a soft sigh as I kiss him back eagerly.
It’s strange. Kissing him feels both wonderfully new and fresh, and yet comfortable and timeless, as though we’ve been doing this—or were meant to have been doing this—forever.
I feel something bump softly against my calf, and pull back slightly to glance down at a grocery bag.
“Going somewhere?”
He kisses my nose and grabs my hand, dragging me toward the door. “I’m hungry.”
“Convenient, then, that we’re in a restaurant. Or not,” I add as he pulls me out into the frigid December air.
I’m not wearing my coat, but I can’t bring myself to protest. “I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm” and all that. The Rat Pack would be proud.
He releases my hand to pull car keys out of his jeans pocket, pushing the button. His truck beeps, and he opens the passenger door the way he has a million times. “In.”
Mark gives my ass a playful smack as I do as he says. He hasn’t done that a million times, but that too feels natural and familiar. Familiar has never felt as exhilarating as it does in this minute.
You pull him into your orbit.
I push Erika’s words aside.
Mark climbs into his side, but instead of starting the engine, he hands me the bag.
I look inside, and pull out a loaf of the restaurant’s delicious house-made French bread. There’s also a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, some sort of pasta in a to-go container, paper plates and utensils to eat it all, and…
I pull the last package out and whimper in ecstasy. “Are these the salted caramel shortbread brownies?”
He shrugs.
They’re my favorite, and he knows it. But he hardly ever makes them. Partially because he’s handed over most of the dessert duties to the staff, and even when he does make dessert, he claims these take too long. They have like six layers: a crust made with browned butter, caramel, chocolate, salty pretzel, something else, something else…anyway, they apparently take hours.
“You said you wouldn’t make them anymore. That they weren’t worth it.”
He looks at me. Looks away. “The look on your face right now is worth it.”
The statement is so sweet, so unlike him, that I think I’ve imagined it. The fact that he won’t meet my eyes tells me that I haven’t.
I launch myself across the cab of the truck, planting kisses all over his face and neck. He laughs and tries to push me off, though the effort is halfhearted.
“Can we please eat?”
“Fine, fine,” I say, pulling back and plopping back into my own seat. “But remind me why we’re eating out in your truck when there’s an, oh, what’s it called…a restaurant a few feet away?”
“That place sucks,” he says, accepting the paper plate I hand him.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that. The owner and head chef’s a real dick.”
“Mmm.” He wrestles with the wine bottle and corkscrew I hand him, pouring us each some wine in a plastic cup.
“For real,” I say around a mouthful of pasta once I’ve loaded both our plates. “Why are we car-picnicking?”
“You’re supposed to think it’s romantic.”
I swear as I drop a piece of pasta on the passenger seat and pick it up with my napkin. “Very.”
“I don’t like eating in front of my employees,” he says after a moment.
He sounds a little embarrassed by the admission, and I glance over. “Why?”
