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“This place looks ready to blow away.”
“It’s been here over thirty years; it’ll survive this storm just as it’s survived all the others.” We jog up the short steps to the wide surrounding porch. We’re barely out of the rain when he kisses me. It’s soft and quick, but it still makes me giddy, and I can’t hide my smile. “I thought you liked rain kisses.”
Rain kisses. I love them actually.
“You can’t use my words against me.”
“I just did.” He’s laughing as he pulls the door open, and the heat from inside blasts us. It’s like being back in his warm car, only it smells delicious and my mouth is watering for food and not the sight of Damon handling the steering wheel.
A few bistro tables line the wall opposite the food counter, but he takes me all the way to the back and through a curtained doorway that leads to the porch. Heavy clear plastic sheets are pulled taut over the open intervals, and it feels like we’re hanging off the edge of a cliff or something because there’s only the sea ahead of us. Crashing waves upon crashing waves that foam silver in the night.
“You actually have a death wish.”
“Trust me, you’re safe. You’ll live to see another day and with a belly full of food.”
“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” We both turn to the opening we came through. A tall, older woman is standing there, wiping her hands on her apron with a big grin on her face. “Damon Coldwell, are you sure you’re in the right place?”
“I’m always in the right place,” he replies, his voice light and cheery. “Where’s Jo?”
“Right here.” She points at herself as she comes closer and whips him with a dishcloth from her apron pocket before she starts cleaning a table in the corner.
“I meant the other Jo.”
“He’s in the kitchen. Always in the kitchen, that man.” She shrugs. “Sit down. I’ll go grab a menu, give you and your lady friend a minute to get settled.”
“Ava, Jo-Anne. Jo-Anne, Ava,” he introduces us.
“Aren’t you pretty,” she coos.
“I guess so.” Damon pulls out the chair for me at the same time as I thank her.
“Pretty?” Scowling up at him, I trail my finger from the middle of his chest, down to the top of his jeans. “You should think I’m the most goddamn beautiful thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on if you’re going to save this date.”
“Don’t you worry, the food will do that.” He pulls the chair opposite mine across and sits beside me. “What would you like to drink? They have one beer, one white, one red, and one rosé. Oh, and vodka. That’s it. Nothing else. Except water and soda.”
“I’ll have whatever is good.”
Smiling, he takes my hand. Twisting the slim band on my middle finger, he asks, “Do you love him?”
The serious expression on his face deepens when I don’t reply right away, and his fingers thread through mine. I look at the plain ring on my finger, trying to figure out why it triggered such a question, but it’s only when he traces the white line from my engagement ring that I understand.
“I don’t know. I mean, at this point, I don’t even know if I ever did.” I feel embarrassed admitting it, but it seems to relax him again.
“Why would you marry him, then?”
“I thought I wanted to. Things between us were easy. We enjoyed some of the same things. My parents loved him, and he had all the credentials and potential. I-I don’t know. Why are you asking?”
Looking up at me, with the outdoor heater light reflecting in his eyes, he looks devilish. “Because I want to know if he’s competition.”
His seriousness has a sinister glint to it, and given how he handles things…
“Damon, I was more upset at the fact he stole my promotion than I was over breaking our engagement. I suppose that means I didn’t love Marsh. I don’t know, but if I wanted him back, I would never have let anything happen between us.”
Jo-Anne comes back with a menu, but he orders everything off the top of his head, without a second thought. And although it’s not the fanciest of places for a date, I love that it means something to him. That he loves it here.
When she leaves, he continues. “I don’t do competition.”
“Because you’re a brat?”
