“I called ahead. It should be under Martin,” he tells the host before I can open my mouth.
The man scans down a list of reservations, spots the name, and then nods reverently. “Of course. Right this way.”
I’m intrigued by the fact that Noah called ahead. I didn’t think we needed to, but I’m glad he did because the restaurant is busy and we likely wouldn’t have gotten seated for a while.
“Here you are,” the host says, sweeping his hand over an intimate table set for two with a cluster of votive candles lit in the center. A bottle of rosé is already chilling beside wine glasses, and Noah nods approvingly as if this is exactly what he asked for.
“You arranged all this?” I ask as I sit down in the chair Noah tugs out for me.
“I wanted to make sure we didn’t have to wait,” he says, trying to make it sound casual.
It’s not. The bottle of rosé is my favorite brand. There’s no way they brought it by coincidence.
“This was really nice of you,” I say as he takes the seat across from me.
I’ve been in Natalie’s life long enough to know that Noah’s a rare breed. Romantic. Attentive. Addictive. For a brief instant, I allow myself to revel in the idea of being with a man like him, one who’s the exact opposite of Von. What would he be like on a date? In bed?
As soon as the thought pops into my mind, Noah knows it.
His gaze catches mine over the table, and maybe it’s the romantic atmosphere of the restaurant, maybe the glow of the candlelight or the effects of too much alcohol and sun in one day, but I swear Noah has a mischievous glint in his eyes.
When the waiter comes to take our order, Noah suggests we order the chef’s special. I agree, not wanting to hunt through a list of entrees when I could be focused on him instead.
It occurs to me that it’s slightly awkward to be alone with him. We’ve had dinner together plenty of times, but we’ve always had Natalie and Connor to act as a buffer.
All the simple first-date questions—not that it’s a date!!—aren’t on the table. We know so much about each other already. It feels silly now to start at the beginning, though I think we should.
“Do you want to play a round of twenty questions?”
He smiles. “I’ve never played.”
“It’s simple. I just ask questions and you have to answer them.”
“And then what? It’s my turn?”
I wink. “Sure, if you survive my questioning.”
He relaxes back in his chair and nods for me to start.
I go easy on him in the beginning.
“Favorite food?”
“Spaghetti and meatballs.”
I smile. It’s a little funny considering he’s half French and half Spanish. I know his father’s job as a photojournalist forced them to move all over while he and Natalie were growing up, and I wasn’t expecting his answer to be so simple.
“From a restaurant?” I ask.
“Homemade. I’ll teach you sometime.”
I ignore the swell of butterflies in my stomach, nod, and take a sip of my water.
“Do you wish your parents had raised you overseas rather than in the States?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t really matter. We moved around so much for my dad’s work that I feel like I grew up everywhere.”
“Do you prefer French or English?”
He thinks on that for a moment. “French.” He pauses before adding, “In certain moments.”
I shift in my chair, aware of what he’s hinting at. Hopefully he doesn’t notice my blush in the candlelight.
“Favorite book?”
“I don’t have just one. It’s too hard to pick.”
“What’s the last concert you went to?”
His eyes narrow as he thinks it over. “Does the symphony count? I went for a fundraiser last month.”
I act offended. “Remind me to buy us all tickets to a decent show when we get back to Boston, something with cheap beer and a sound system that will make us all go deaf.”
He laughs and I take my lip between my teeth as I scan the restaurant, trying to think of another question. I see a couple not far from us, leaning in toward one another, eyes locked. The woman has her hand flat on top of the table and the man is tracing each one of her fingers. It feels surprisingly intimate, and it encourages me to ask a question that takes us in a slightly different direction.
“What attracts you to a person?”
When he doesn’t answer immediately, I glance back at him to find him studying me.
“It’s not one thing,” he says, dragging his finger up and down through the condensation on his water glass. “It’s more in the way someone makes me feel. Electrified, excited…hungry. Maybe it’s physical, maybe mental. I don’t know.”
It’s a good answer, but I want more. “C’mon. You’re not a butt guy?”
He chuckles under his breath and shakes his head. “I tend to notice a woman’s legs first.”