Chapter 28 #2
I’m grabbing my purse when there’s a knock at the door. I truly hope Tom didn’t take it upon himself to pick me up when I said we’d meet there.
I swing the door open and my eyes go wide.
“Patrick.”
His gaze rakes over me from head to toe and back again. Then those dark brown eyes land on mine.
“You look dressed up,” he says. Not that I look nice or pretty. Just, dressed up.
“Your powers of observation astound me.” I actually roll my eyes. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah. Your mail came to my side of the house.” He holds out a stack of envelopes.
“Oh. Thanks. You didn’t sprinkle anthrax on it or anything did you?”
“I was in a rush, so … no.” He smirks.
“Yeah. That happens. Too busy to poison the neighbor.”
His smile breaks free with those heart-stopping dimples that beg to be touched. Not by me. Not that my heart is stopping—because it’s not. It’s actually beating right through my cashmere.
“I’m going to be late,” I say, trying to squeeze past Patrick.
Well, I mean to.
He’s so big and immovable I end up brushing against him—my shoulder grazes his chest, and for one dizzying second, my pulse betrays me. His warmth, that smell—coffee, campfire, something unreasonably male—wraps around me before I can escape.
He leans in, as he has the habit of doing. This man does not know the meaning of personal space.
“Going on a date, Daisy?” His breath fans across the shell of my ear from behind.
I turn the key in my lock.
He steps back. I pivot.
“I am. Not that it’s any of your business,” I snap.
He almost looks hurt. But then he says, “Try not to break too many hearts out there.”
As if I’m the one breaking hearts. He’s probably pieced it together—me waiting with no sign of anyone showing, and then arriving home before the festival even ended. He knows I’m not the heartbreaker here.
“You too,” I say, turning and walking down the steps. Great. Now it looks like I’m flirting with him.
Tom chose Gino’s, a classic Italian restaurant. It’s moderately dressy, but you’ll see people in here in cowboy boots and Wranglers or dress pants and a tie. He’s waiting by the hostess stand when I walk in. He looks nice in his button-down dress shirt, jeans and loafers.
“Daisy!” Tom steps forward and wraps me in a platonic hug.
“Hi,” I say, as he releases me.
His hand lingers on my back and his eyes take me in. “You look beautiful.”
I blush lightly. Tom does have a way with words and the way he’s looking at me makes me feel beautiful—unlike the way a certain neighbor eyed me only minutes ago.
Patrick’s intensity carries into everything, even the way he sizes me up.
I shake my head lightly. Why am I thinking about Patrick when I’m here with Tom?
We’re seated near the windows toward the back of the restaurant. It’s dark out, but the twinkle lights across the back patio are on. The hostess lights the tea light in the candle holder and hands us our menus.
“I’m getting the shrimp scampi,” he says, setting his menu aside. “And the house salad. I recommend both.”
I consider my options. I like a man who knows his mind, but I also want to make my own choices.
The waiter comes and I order lasagna and Caesar salad.
“So, how are you?” he asks, leaning back in his chair slightly. “I heard about Moss and Maple and the plans for Home Mart.”
“Yeah.” I sigh. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about it. It’s sort of all I think about these days. I may have to close shop.” I swallow an unexpected lump and reach for my ice water.
His nod feels thoughtful, but then he says, “Well, physical bookstores are on the decline anyway. The market’s moving digital. It’s almost inevitable that places like Moss and Maple will be a thing of the past before we know it.”
I choke on my ice water, sputtering the sip I just took, then dabbing the table and my face with my napkin.
“I think we might have had a few good years left in us,” I say, wishing we could shift the topic like I’d originally asked.
“Honestly, why fight it? When a business tanks, you have to let it go. You’re smart enough to do something else.”
I don’t even know what to say. Moss and Maple has been the heart of the book-loving community in Waterford.
“Well, as you say, you’d rather not think about it. Focus all of your energy not on fighting the old but on building the new.” Tom smiles across the table at me. “Socrates said that.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “I thought it was Aristotle.”
I have no idea who said it, but does he—really? How does one man keep all these quotes straight along with their sources?
“Nope. It was Socrates.”
“Hmmm.” I leave my dubious response hanging in the air.
Tom pulls out his phone and asks Siri, “Who said, Focus all of your energy not on fighting the old, but on building the new?”
Siri dutifully answers, “That was Socrates.”
Tom nods with satisfaction and pockets his phone.
“Lots of people confuse Socrates and Aristotle,” he says. “There’s a lineage there. Socrates taught Plato who taught Aristotle. I use the acronym SPA to remember the order. Well, I did, in college. Of course, I know the difference by now.”
“Of course.”
“Did that sound arrogant?” He seems genuinely concerned.
“A little?” I shrug.
“Sorry. I geek out on the Greeks. What can I say?”
I smile as dutifully as Siri answered.
Tom spends a good portion of our dinner discussing Greek philosophers and then switches to the book he’s reading. He gives me a rundown of the plot and where he thinks the author could have done a better job tightening character motivation and believability.
I’m a good listener. That’s my takeaway from tonight’s dinner.
Tom … not so much.
I miss discussing books with the host of Burning Through the Pages. We could talk about what we had read for hours and I never felt excluded or looked down upon.
On the upside, the lasagna is perfect—comfort food at its best.
I pass on dessert and ask the waiter to bring the check.
“I’ll split with you,” I offer.
“Nonsense,” Tom insists. “I asked you on a date. I’ll pay.”
I wait for a famous quote about chivalry or Ben Franklin’s thoughts on finances, but none comes.
“I had a nice night,” Tom says after giving the waiter his card. “I’d love to take you out again sometime.”
“I think I’m not in the right headspace to date—with everything going on with the shop.”
Tom nods. “I understand. Now is no time to think of what you do not have. Think of what you can do with that there is.” He smiles softly. “Hemingway. Old Man and the Sea.”
“I love that novella,” I say.
“It’s a classic.” Tom stands, pulling out my chair, and we walk out of the restaurant together.
He gives me another cordial hug. Tell me why my brain takes that moment to remind me of Patrick’s mouth breathing warmth across my ear before I left for dinner.
On the drive home, I call Carli through my Bluetooth. I need to hear the voice of a friend.
“How was the date?” she asks.
“Good. I tried calling you earlier today. Where were you?”
“Oh! I had my phone off. I was at Cody’s … Uh, the Lawsons’ ranch. Helping with the fall calving.”
“You’re such a stud.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you saw Cody. He’s incredible.” She pauses. “Anyway, tell me all about Tom.”
“There’s nothing to tell unless you want a refresher in ancient history.”
“What?”
“Nothing. Is it pathetic that I just want to run home and tell the host of the podcast all about it?”
“He’s the pathetic one. You’re too good for him—obviously.”
“Is that the problem? I’m too good?”
“Yes. And don’t you forget it.”
I pull up to my apartment. Thankfully, Patrick is not perched on my porch steps. Carli and I say goodnight. I slip into my pajamas and snuggle under the covers. Then, against my better judgment, I open the podcast app and listen to the latest episode.