I reach out blindly and tug open the refrigerator doors. My heart starts to slam against my ribs when I see groceries on every shelf — more food than I think I’ve ever had at once. Fruits and vegetables and pre-made raviolis and a French bread and a big wedge of expensive cheese and my favorite kind of seltzer. Cranberry lime.
I don’t have the mental capacity to wonder how he even knew it was my favorite, because my eyes are fixed on the bottom shelf, where a six pack of beer with a brand name I’ve never heard of sits unobtrusively.
Lagunitas India Pale Ale.
A man’s beer. Definitely.
Nate’s beer.
I stare at it for a long moment, wondering what it means that he left his beer here. Wondering why he bothered to do all this for me. And most importantly, whether he saw me sleeping in a puddle of my own drool with crazy, electrocuted hair and my holey yoga pants when he snuck in and stocked my fridge with groceries.
Fine, maybe snuck isn’t the right verb. I was pretty much dead to the world — nothing short of an earthquake would’ve woken me. For all I know, he loaded in the groceries while blasting death metal so loud it shook the floors. My dreams of Henry Cavill would’ve continued undisturbed.
Whatever.
My eyes seem to be stuck on the sight of his beer sitting next to my seltzer. Never in my life have I been so entranced by the sight of a freaking beverage. I stand there for so long the fridge starts to beep at me, its automated alert system kicking on to tell me cool air is escaping.
The persistent beeps snap me out of my stupor. I shut the door in a daze, turning to lean against the stainless steel and hauling a shaky breath into my lungs. My eyes press closed. Maybe if I squeeze them hard enough, I’ll erase what I’ve just seen from my memory.
Damn him.
Just when I think I really might be able to hate him, that he’s terrible and bossy and no good… he goes and does something like this. Something that makes my heart ache so fiercely, it’s all I can do not to curl into a ball on the floor and ride the waves until the ocean of longing recedes back behind safe banks of common sense and self-preservation.
Boo barks from somewhere at my feet and my eyes spring open, landing on the illuminated green numbers glowing from my microwave clock.
6:31
Crap on a corn biscuit with a side of fries.
Unless I want to look like Medusa on my date, thoughts of Nate are going to have to simmer on the back burner. I sprint from the kitchen and up the stairs as fast as my legs can carry me.
***
“Did I already tell you how beautiful you look?”
“Twice.” I smile. “But that’s really not the kind of compliment that gets old.”
We’re at a gorgeous little restaurant by the water, and I’m thanking my lucky stars my favorite little black dress was clean and wrinkle-free when I yanked it on at 6:57, because the decor here is fancy. Linen tablecloths, extensive wine list, candles burning low in crystal centerpieces. Cormack orders a bottle of white wine for the table and I bite my tongue to keep from telling him I prefer a pinot noir to its grigio counterpart.
What I’d really like is an Old Fashioned, but I don’t tell him that either.
“So, tell me about your work,” I say, realizing I know virtually nothing about the man sitting across from me other than that he’s extremely handsome, once hailed from the Emerald Isle, and does, in fact, use dinner napkins properly.
Mouth breathing cretin, indeed.
“I could, but if I wanted to put you to sleep I’d have taken you to the symphony.” He grins, dimples popping. “Let’s talk about you. You’re much more exciting.”
“I like the symphony,” I murmur, but he doesn’t hear me — the sommelier’s returned with our wine and Cormack is busy swirling, sniffing, and sipping.
“Perfection,” he announces when he’s swallowed. “Thank you.”
The sommelier nods, fills our glasses, and disappears without a word. Cormack turns to me, glass raised.
“A toast.” His eyes sparkle as they meet mine.
My eyebrows lift in tandem with my glass. “What are we toasting?”
“To new beginnings.”