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Which this isn’t.
Which means she’s flirting.
Which suddenly pisses me off.
“Sampler?” I ask.
“It’s a small plate of every dessert on the menu.”
Could he be any more perfect? What man orders that?
“Why dessert?” I snap at him, torn between being pissed and falling deeper in love.
“You told me you never make it to dessert on your dates. I wanted to change your luck.”
Silence fills the space between us, heavy like air before a rainstorm, what happened back at Bailargo hovering like dark clouds.
“Here you go!” The server–whose name tag I refuse to read because in my mind that makes her important and gives her energy to flirt more with Will and I’m not handing out my energy like that, thank you very much–sets my triple macchiato next to me, and a caramel-colored soda with two slices of lime on the rim in front of Will. She returns quickly with a small platter of pastries and chocolate that looks so delicious. I need to find the chef and offer up an ovary or something.
She leaves.
I moan.
Chocolate ganache in little cups made of solid dark chocolate with burnt marshmallows on top, tiny sailboats made of graham cracker poking out of the center. Tiramisu bites. Miniature pistachio cannoli. Rock candy in jewel tones stacked across burnt-sugar canoes filled with some kind of extraordinary candy-cane-speckled ice cream.
“You act like you’ve never seen dessert before,” he says, laughing.
“I haven’t. Remember?” I swallow the words Not on a date, at least, before they escape.
I choose this moment to sip half my macchiato. Why I’m drinking three shots of coffee at nine p.m. is beyond me. Must be channeling Perky.
He picks up his Coke and squeezes the lime, then drinks a few swallows, closing his eyes. I sneak a long peek at him.
Dancy’s words ring in my ears.
The press of Will’s hand around mine burns my skin.
I put out the fire with the coldest thing in reach: peppermint ice cream.
He smiles and reaches for a chocolate ganache cup.
“This is amazing,” I say through a mouthful of yum. “How have I not discovered this place before?” I evaluate the platter, picking up an individual dessert with my fork.
“New management. And it’s for an older crowd. Lots of grey hairs here.”
I look around. He’s right. This is exactly the kind of place my parents would adore, though if you call my mom a grey hair, she’ll beat you to death with her box of Madison Reed Amaretto Red.
“It’s a great place to bring a date,” he adds.
There it is.
I pause, fork with salted-caramel macadamia nut cheesecake bite in midair, and make eye contact. “Is that what this is? A date?”
Before Will can answer, someone behind him cries out, “Mallory! What a coincidence!”
It’s my mother.
Small towns. What can I say?
