His eyes trail over me, top to bottom, drawing out the flush in my skin. I see a spark of pure, X-rated animal lust flare in his gaze before he covers with a family friendly smile that’d be fully appropriate for all demographics. Guess I chose the right dress.
“No tool belt?” I say, keeping my tone light as I walk up to him.
“It’s in the car,” he says.
The drive out to Montague is easy. We discuss the day’s shoot, falling into a natural rhythm. When he reaches for my hand, jolts of electricity run up and down my arm, and although I could jump on him right now in the car I force myself to hold back, because I like the idea of letting the anticipation build. Also I don’t want to cause a collision.
The best part, though, is The Bookmill. It’s housed in a cozy red building, right next to the churning river. The moonlight ripples on the water, a breathtaking sight. As we drive in, I see a painted sign reading The Montague Mill 1834. Twinkling white lights are strung along the entrance as we get out of the truck and walk down the path.
“Flint, this is incredible,” I say.
“Try not to swoon before the appetizers,” he teases, pulling me in for a long, intense kiss that all but incapacitates me. God, if he keeps it up these panties will be ruined. I pull away slowly, trying to shake off the hardcore lust weakening my knees.
“I’m not the swooning type,” I lie. Winking at him, I walk on. I need to stop grinning like an idiot, but damn if it isn’t hard.
We’re almost to the door when he pulls me to the side. “Before we go in, I wanted to show you something. Hope you like it,” he says, leading the way as we head upstairs to the house’s attic floor, which is lit up from inside and looks warm and cozy.
When we enter, it’s suddenly very clear why they call this place the Bookmill—the place is a book nerd’s paradise. The lights are soft on the gabled walls and exposed wooden beams. Plush little wingback chairs are circled around reading tables. The walls are packed with books, all just begging to be taken down and opened. I’m instantly on alert, scanning the shelves for something good. And there’s a lot that’s good here. I grab an old copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, all about the time he spent living in Paris. When I was a teenager, I liked to imagine hanging around Europe in the 1920s. Cigarette holder in one hand, book in the other, wearing original Chanel designs and flirting with F. Scott Fitzgerald over tumblers of good whiskey. You know. Same fantasies as every other kid.
Flint picks up a book, his eyes sparkling as he scans the jacket copy.
“You’re a reader?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement as we look over the selection. I saw bookshelves back at his place, but sometimes people put those in just for show. Tyler was like that.
I need to stop thinking about that loser. Flint’s here, and he’s happy to talk about his reading habits.
“Three Body Problem. Left Hand of Darkness.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a sci-fi guy myself.”
I have to keep from screaming out in excitement. “Rendezvous with Rama?”
“Oh wow.” His eyes light up. “Arthur C. Clarke was a god. Exploring that spaceship was incredible! Absolutely nothing happened!”
“I never wanted it to end,” I sigh. I playfully tap his shoulder as I move around him, taking in more of the shelves. “So rare to meet anyone who shares my enthusiasm for alien civilizations. I can’t believe we never talked about this.”
Flint draws me to him and traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, and as he gazes at me like he wants to eat me alive a wave of heat uncurls in my belly. “I’m a believer in first contact,” he whispers in my ear. My breath catches in my throat.
“Did I mention I’m not wearing panties tonight?” I whisper back huskily, my hands sliding down the planes of his chest to the waistband of his pants, except—stupid man belts. Always getting in the way. I tug at the buckle. “Talk nerdy to me, Flint.”
His breathing is strained. “I—”
And then our reservation is called out, and I’m almost disappointed to head downstairs to our table. That is, until I’m seated by the window, watching the moonlight wink on the river, about to enjoy what turns out to be one of the best meals of my life.
The wine Flint chooses is amazing, and the bourbon-glazed salmon, mango saffron rice and braised kale make my foodie Angeleno heart sing. As we drink and dine, Flint and I continue with our sci-fi nerdery. Of all the planets in Star Wars, I’d want to live on Naboo (“You can’t pick anything from the prequels! It’s sacrilege,”) and he’d choose Endor (“The teddy bear people?” “They have a great affinity for nature!”). I can’t remember ever enjoying a dinner conversation this much. Especially when I find out that Flint was kind of a wild man back in New York. Well, sort of.