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“Does it involve mincemeat or chocolate fish?”
“I know a limerick or two,” he said. “I have quite an extensive repertoire.”
“I bet you do,” I said.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he said.
“You’re crazy.”
“That I am,” he said, looking at me in a way that spoke volumes.
I cleared my throat and stared at my hands.
And then Michael reached over and wrapped his larger hand around them.
“You’re fidgeting,” he said.
“I do that,” I admitted. “I also breathe too fast.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“I count to three inside my head.”
He still held my hands in one of his.
“Do you? Why?” he asked.
“It helps slow my breaths down. My…”
“Your what?”
“My psychologist taught me that.”
He nodded his head.
He still held my hands.
“I can see how that would work,” he said.
“I take anti-depressants,” I blurted, my heartbeat thundering.
“I take anti-anxiety meds,” Michael said and stroked a thumb over the back of my hand.
“You do?”
“I do,” he said.
“I guess we’ve all got a story to tell,” I offered.
He looked down at me.
I looked up at him.
“Has your heroine found her happily ever after?” he asked.
“I’m working on it,” I said.
He smiled.
“Will you go to dinner with me?” he asked.
“Soon,” I said.
“I can wait,” he said and winked.
