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“I—” Her voice catches in her throat and I smile. That’s the one.
Sweetheart.
“You ready to get something to eat before we head back,sweetheart?”
“You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“Maybe, sweetheart.”
“You don’t have to say it aftereverything, you know?”
“I like it,” I say with a shrug. “Sounds nice.”
Suits you.
“Just…just don’t overdo it,” she mumbles as she glances down at her lap, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“I make no promises, sweetheart.”
It doesn’t escape me that, this time, she doesn’t protest the name.
* * *
We finda small restaurant about twenty minutes away from the gas station. Despite being tucked away down a heavily wooded and bumpy side road, there’s only one space in the small parking lot outside when we pull up.
“I feel like we’re underdressed,” Amber mutters as we wait at the entrance for the waiter to see if he can find us a table. She’s standing so close to me, I think we could probably pass as a couple right now. It wouldn’t take anything for me to drape an arm over her shoulder and pull her into me. My fingers twitch by my side, daring me to do it.
“You look beautiful,” I tell her as I stuff my hands into the pockets of my pants. And she does. I think this is the most casual I’ve ever seen her — dressed for nothing but spending the day in a car organising the transportation of an expensive chandelier, but she still looks amazing.
She opens her mouth, then closes it and swallows. Her tongue darts out to run over her lips, and I can practically hear the gears in her head working overtime as she figures out what she wants to say.
A woman in a fitted black dress saunters past us, followed by a man in a tailored suit. Amber laughs quietly under her breath and shakes her head. “We’re definitely underdressed.”
The waiter doesn’t seem to mind. He re-emerges after a few minutes and happily informs us that he’s found a table. As we walk farther into the restaurant, it’s easy to see why the other guests are dressed the way they are.
“Wow.” Amber’s voice is a breathy whisper as we step into an atrium with high ceilings and a mixture of earthy wooden decor and gold accents. Despite the large room, there are only a few tables in the space, each covered in a white tablecloth. They’re so far away from the others that they might as well all be their own little islands.
The waiter leads us to an empty table right next to a row of large French windows that overlook the lake beneath us. He moves to pull out Amber’s seat for her, but I step forward first and enjoy the small smile she gives me as she drops into it.
“This place is just…wow.” She turns her head in every direction, soaking up every inch of the decor around us. “It’s a real hidden gem. I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it before. I wonder who the designer was. Did you see that detailing on the walls near the entrance? And these chairs?” She grips the hand rest of her seat and looks at me with wide, excited eyes. “They’re stunning! I’ve had them on my design wish list for years. I’ve just been waiting for a project they’d work for.”
I lean forward, enthralled, as she launches into a five-minute ramble about the furniture and decor choices and “the truly genius way the designer has combined natural and modern.” I don’t recognize any of the names of the designers and artists she throws out, and I can barely keep up as she starts reeling off various techniques and tricks the designer of this restaurant has apparently utilised, but I love it.
I love the way she lights up and comes alive as she goes through everything she likes about the way this restaurant has been designed.
“Sorry,” she says sheepishly once she finally stops to take a breath. She dips her head and I hate how she suddenly looks uncertain and afraid that I’m going to suddenly dismiss her. “You probably didn’t care about any of that.”
I don’t know how she could possibly think that. I’ve got my elbow propped up on the table, my chin resting in the palm of my hand, my gaze focused solely on her. Can she really not tell how enamoured I am with her? How I could easily sit here for years listening to her talk about colour schemes and something called “modern organic” design and never, ever get bored?
“I cared about it because you care about it,” I say with an easy shrug. “And it was interesting. Really interesting, sweetheart.”
She doesn’t complain about the use ofsweetheart. Instead, she beams at me like I’ve just told her she’s won the lottery. “Thank you.”
“Have you always wanted to be a designer?” I ask her.
She nods as our waiter comes back with our drinks and cutlery. Once he’s gone again, she says, “It’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.”
A tiny pang of jealousy ripples through me, but I push it away.
