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“A proper one. One where I ask you to have dinner with me with the hopes of exploring our compatibility and chemistry,” Libby responded clinically.
Reagan laughed. “Well, how about a food marathon on Thanksgiving? How’s that for a proper date?”
Cocking her head to the side, Libby looked up at her in the way that made her heart freeze and then burst out of the gate like a racehorse. “Do you still want to do that? Not under contract, but as my . . .”
Reagan leaned down and kissed her again, softly this time as she poured every ounce of emotion into the act. Her knees weakened and her hands shook when Libby went limp in her arms. “That agreement is dead. Contract null and void. Is that okay with you?”
“Hell yes,” Libby whispered before lunging forward and capturing her lips again.
HAND-IN-HAND, LIBBY AND REAGAN STROLLED OUT OF THE STUDIO.
After giving teenagers a run for their money on marathon make-outs, they decided to get actual food for dinner. After a quick shower, Reagan traded clay-covered clothes for tight jeans and a loose black t-shirt.
“Where are we going?” Libby asked as Reagan unlocked her pick-up truck.
“It’s a surprise,” she replied with an eyebrow wiggle as she flung her wet hair out of her face with a quick head turn.
Sitting in the truck, Libby couldn’t stop glancing at Reagan in the driver’s seat. The scent of her clean skin and light perfume was so intoxicating, it was impossible to take a
full breath. When Reagan suggested going for dinner, part of her wanted to protest. She would’ve been happy to stay in the studio wrapped in her arms, but she didn’t have the nerve to admit it.
“I hope you’re hungry. This place is amazing,” Reagan said as she dropped her hand into her lap. Libby stared at it, itching to hold it aga
in but worried she’d come o as clingy.
God, she wanted to be clingy, though. She wanted to be hanging all over her like the citrusy scent on her skin.
Get it together, she chided before clearing her throat and looking out the window. It was like she’d never had any physical intimacy in her life. Libby’s stomach sank. That was exactly what it felt like. Like she’d never been kissed or touched and now she was insatiable.
“Hey, are you okay? You’re really quiet,” Reagan asked as she joined a long line of cars inching along the congested road.
“Yeah, sorry.” She smiled and twisted in her seat a little to the side to face her again. “I was just busy wracking my brain thinking of where you might be taking me.”
Reagan smiled. “I think you’re going to love it.”
Half an hour later, they were in front of a tiny restaurant in what looked like a converted gas station between two used car lots. The Edison lights strung around the front and extending into the parking lot like an abstract octopus was a lovely addition to the window box overflowing with flowers.
“Well . . . this looks very interesting,” she said, trying her best to sound upbeat, but her hesitation snuck in despite the e ort.
“Don’t judge,” Reagan said before popping her door open.
“At least not until you get inside.”
“I wasn’t,” she muttered before taking the hand Reagan o ered. The contact was a thousand tiny bees stinging her palm and seizing her heart.
“Sorry, they’re a little dry from the clay.” Reagan’s cheeks flushed bright pink.
Libby laced their fingers together. “They’re perfect,” she said before giving her hand a squeeze.
Reagan bit back a smile. Her pronounced dimples made Libby want to say forget the restaurant and drag her back to the studio like an enamored caveman. She resisted.
Inside, the small space was simple but incredibly elegant.
Each of the dozen round tables were crowded with patrons and exquisite looking food. After Reagan talked to someone in the back, while Libby tried not to fidget by playing with her fingers or reach for her phone, she waved her over.
Crab-walking between tables packed so close together they couldn’t possibly pass fire inspections, Libby joined Reagan at a counter being cleared of to-go containers and bags.
“They don’t have anything available for like an hour,”
