“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s me. And . . . the world. Everything. It’s not you.”
“Then one of these days, you’ll trust the world and everything.” He opens the door for me, and when I sit down, he leans in and kisses me quickly on the cheek. “But first, we eat. You up for a drive?”
“Sure. Where are we going?”
He starts the engine. “We’re in Maine, yes? So what must we eat?”
“Mexican food.”
He laughs. “Nooooo.”
“Sushi? Parsnips? Frozen pizza?”
“You’re nuts.”
“Nuts? Okay. Pecans, cashews . . .”
His profile when he laughs again is hard to look away from, so I don’t.
“You’re not the best guesser,” he teases. “We’re in Maine, girl! We’ve got to get fried clams. Well, unless you’re repulsed by seafood, in which case you and I are going to have to have a very serious talk.”
“Actually, I love fried clams. All seafood, really. Simon and I go to a place in Boston that’s so good. Down in Faneuil Hall. The Union—”
“Oyster House!” he finishes. “You do the raw bar?”
“Absolutely.”
“God, I knew I liked you.” He lets out what is indisputably a contented sigh and reaches for my hand as he pulls onto the highway. “Get ready, because this place will blow your mind. It’s almost an hour to get there, but I promise it’s worth it. And then, I thought we could go to this great orchard and pick apples and pumpkins. You know, a New England–themed day. Cool?”
I tighten my hand around his. Esben is not just taking me out for a quick lunch. He wants to spend the day with me. “Cool.”
CHAPTER 15
GO FOR THE DREAM
Esben is right. The drive is worth it, and we haven’t even eaten yet. We’re at a traditional fish shack, complete with window service only and outdoor picnic tables, and I already know I’m going to love it.
I’m seated on one of the benches while he’s getting our food from the window. Esben is leaning forward against the take-out counter, chatting with the girl at the register and occasionally calling back to the guy frying up our platters. He’s so social and friendly that it’s astounding. I can’t ever recall starting random conversations with strangers. What undeniably has my attention more than Esben’s outgoing nature, though, is his breathtakingly hot backside. I cannot help myself, because his jeans hug his shape with excruciating perfection. I’m starving, but I feel a certain disappointment when he stands up fully and turns to bring our food. Of course, the front of him isn’t too shabby either . . .
I assumed he’d sit across from me, so my stomach flutters when he straddles the bench I’m on, facing me. Lord, this boy makes me so nervous and so comfortable at the same time, and I can’t take my eyes off him.
“How’s that look, huh?” he asks.
“So, so good.” Then I realize that he is talking about the food.
He totally catches me ogling him, but before I can turn away, he’s got a hand caressing the back of my neck. “It does look good. Best thing I’ve seen in ages.”
His hand glides over my face, and he delicately moves his thumb across my lips. Esben slides nearer and slowly leans in. His mouth tantalizingly close, he whispers, “Best. Thing. In. Ages.”
And then I shut my eyes and feel his lips on mine.
This is a gentle, tender kiss that lasts only a few heartbeats, but it only takes those few heartbeats for me to get blissfully lost.
Then he quickly kisses my cheek and sits back. “Hungry, gorgeous?”
Somehow, I am able to reply. “Ravenous.” The smell is heavenly, and my now-grumbling stomach is probably the only thing preventing me from doing something stupid, like jumping into his arms and cramming my tongue down his throat.
“We’ve got it all here. Fried clams, oysters, scallops, shrimp, calamari, and haddock. Plus about five pounds of fresh French fries. Tartar sauce or ketchup?”
“Both. And, oh God, fried oysters? Most places don’t have those.”
Esben picks one up, dunks it in both sauces, and brings it to my mouth. “I’m about to upend your world.”
I smile. “I think you already have.”
He kisses my cheek again. “Eat.”
I let him feed me the oyster, and while it doesn’t hold a candle to the heated pleasure of his kiss, it’s still damn satisfying. Between this juicy oyster that tastes of the sea and Esben’s alluring presence, this is by far the best meal of my life.
We work our way through the mountain of seafood and wash it down with a large soda that we share. I don’t ever want to leave this picnic table, but Esben is throwing away our trash and telling me about the orchard that’s nearby as he leads me back to the car. It’s a quick ten-minute drive that ends with a bumpy stretch on a dirt road, and after finding a spot in the packed lot, he bounds from the car excitedly.
His face lights up as he looks over the orchard. “This totally reminds me of being a kid. My parents used to take Kerry and me apple picking every year, and then my dad would make apple pie and apple coffee cake. I love my mother, but she can’t cook to save her life. She is, though, a gifted pumpkin carver, and she’d spend forever assessing and rating pumpkins before buying any.” He beckons and keeps his arm out, waiting for me. “Come on! This is going to be fun.”
Very happily, I go to him. As though we have been doing this for years, his arm falls over my shoulder. “What kind of carvings did your mom do?” I ask as we walk.
“Everything. And not just traditional witches and ghosts and scary faces. Kerry and I would request weird stuff, too. Like, one time Kerry asked for a porcupine, and my mom nailed it. Last year, she texted me a picture of the pumpkin she did in my honor.” He laughs. “It was a hashtag, and she said it took her ten minutes and that’s all I was getting, because the year before she’d spent an unreasonable amount of time on the pair of flamingos I wanted.” He stops short. “Oh God, Allison. I’m sorry.”
I’m confused. “Sorry for what?”
“I’m going on and on about my family and childhood outings and stuff, and . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize at all. It’s not like I don’t know that people can grow up with nice families.”
“It was still dumb of me.”
“Hey.” I move to stand in front of him and get him to look at me. “I’m glad you had all that. Really. And I like hearing about it. Don’t . . . look, Esben, you have to tell me about good stuff like this. If you don’t, then it would mean you pity me or you’re protecting me, and I don’t want that. I don’t need protection from your past. I need protection from mine.”
He thinks on this. “Fair enough.”
“Stop looking like you just ran over my dog.” I grab his arm and pull him ahead. “So, let’s go pick apples. And if you’ve inherited carving skills from your mother, then we may need a few pumpkins.”
“I make some fierce triangle eyes . . .”