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“Sorry. Mrs. Rogers.”
“Your description’s accurate. She asked to work during the holidays. Her husband’s a police officer, and she wants to busy her mind. What motivated you to move to Atlanta?”
“Stupidity. I followed my then boyfriend. He’s a sports trainer and took a position with the Falcons.”
“His loss is my win. We’re here.”
The Mercedes stops curbside in front of Chef’s Table, and a valet opens her door with a cheery greeting.
“Merry Christmas, Ma’am.”
“Merry Christmas.”
I place the keys in his hand when I reach the sidewalk. Flakes fall into Penelope’s hair and my stomach flips. She could be mine.
We enter and escort to a reserved private booth. Garland, ornaments, and white twinkling lights bring a festive atmosphere to the space. Penelope looks around and smiles. Funny that her apartment’s undecorated, given her affinity for the season.
She slides into the booth and I follow, resting our knees close. Fragments of sorrow float across my mind, and I remind myself to be present. I’m nestled next to the most beautiful woman in the room, a gift for which I give many thanks.
“Good evening. May I recommend a wine or cocktail?”
His innocent question stirs anger at the drunk driver who stole Syd’s life. My hands form fists, and Penelope responds when she sees my mouth tighten.
“San Pellegrino’s, please.”
“Of course, Miss.”
“Sorry,” I stutter when the server leaves.
“You’re safe to share your feelings with me.”
The angel to my right places a kiss on my cheek, and I refocus on her gorgeous green eyes.
“I get spikes of anger and regret.”
“That’s normal after losing someone close, Bentley. I still cry when I see a dog on tv. Ginger, my golden lab, passed two years ago. Healing takes time.”
“Pinch me, because you can’t be real.”
My lips kiss with sweetness and the server returns with our beverages.
“May I order for us?”
“Sure.”
“The lady will have herb chicken with sauteed asparagus, and I’ll have the brown butter salmon with orzo.”
“Excellent selections. I recommend our fresh micro-greens salad with feta cheese and glazed balsamic dressing.”
“Yes,” my date interjects.
I raise my glass.
“A toast to our blossoming relationship.”
We clink the fine crystal, and I whisper a naughty promise.
“I can’t wait to devour your bud.”
