Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
LUKE
Lorelai looks elegantly beautiful tonight. If our paths had crossed in Chicago, I would have been hard pressed not to have begged her to go out with me. And that’s before I would have known what an exceptionally lovely woman she is.
Our waiter brings over two glasses of champagne. “The Veuve Clicquot pairs nicely with the paté that will be out in a few moments.”
Lorelai looks nervous, and when he leaves, she mumbles, “I feel like a country bumpkin telling you this, but I’ve never had paté.”
“You’re in for a real treat then,” I tell her. “When they pair it with champagne it means that it’s delicate and creamy. Which is my favorite kind.”
Lorelai takes a sip and immediately sneezes. She quickly explains, “It’s the bubbles.” Could she be any more adorable? I’m pretty sure the answer to that is no.
“How are things going at your house?” I ask her.
“It’s been busy,” she tells me. “In the few days that you’ve been gone it’s changed so much you’d hardly recognize the place.” She giggles before adding, “I even had a wall knocked out.”
“Wow, you’re taking your job seriously. What are your parents going to think when they find out you’re tearing the place down?”
She shrugs. “It’s hard to say. They’ll either think it’s fantastic or they’ll never trust me with anything again. Either way, the house looks amazing, so I’m happy.”
“Have you decided where you’re going to go after it sells?” I want her to say that she’s moving to Chicago, but she’s made it clear that isn’t going to happen.
“I looked at an apartment above the yarn shop,” she says. “It’s cute and I think it might be my perfect next step.”
“You do love yarn.”
“I do.” Her eyes narrow as though trying to discern if I’m making fun of her.
“Do you remember that year you made all of those potholders and put them in your wagon to sell?” I try hard not to laugh because it was such a crazy sight. I mean, potholders door to door. You don’t see that every day.
“I made eighty-two dollars doing that,” she tells me proudly.
“Was that enough to cover the cost of the yarn?”
She teases, “Why? Are you thinking about getting a side hustle?” Then she explains, “I was seven, I didn’t have to pay for my own yarn back then.”
“What did you spend that kind of cash on?” I want to know. “More craft supplies? A red wagon upgrade?”
She shakes her head slowly. “I donated it to the animal shelter. That was when I started volunteering with them.”
“You’ve been helping out at the animal shelter since you were seven?” I don’t know why that surprises me, but it does. “Kids don’t generally have philanthropic tendencies so young.”
“I always wanted a dog or cat, but my dad was allergic so this was the only way I could spend regular time with animals.”
“Have you ever had your own pet?” I say, thinking of my childhood dog, Holly. I can’t imagine her not having been a part of my life.
“I had a gerbil once, and a goldfish, but that’s about it.”
“Why haven’t you gotten one now that you’re grown?” I want to know.
Putting her champagne glass down, she tells me, “I guess I just haven’t gotten around to it. Which I suppose is a good thing. I mean, my dad is still allergic, and I am living in his house.”
“But you won’t be for long,” I tell her. “Maybe you’ll get a friend soon.”
“I might,” she says with a bright smile on her face like the very thought makes her happy. “But I wouldn’t want to leave a dog home alone all day.”
“That’s why I don’t have one,” I tell her. “They become such a part of the family, you’d feel like you were abandoning your child.”
The waiter comes by and puts a plate down on the table between us. “Chicken liver paté on brioche toast points with a side of onion marmalade.”
“It looks wonderful,” I tell him sincerely.
Lorelai seems more skeptical. When he walks away, she says, “I’m not a fan of liver.”
“It’s nothing like beef liver,” I tell her. Picking up the dulled knife on the plate, I dab some of the paté onto the toast before adding a small spoonful of the marmalade. I hand it to her. “Try it.”
She hesitantly brings it up to her nose before taking a tentative bite. Her expression shifts from being doubtful to downright joyous. “Yum! It’s earthy but kind of sweet at the same time.”
Making myself a toast point, I tell her, “You only need one or two of these because it’s rich, but it really is the perfect way to start a meal.”
After eating two apiece in relative silence—we’re both thoroughly engrossed in our food—the waiter comes back. He places a small plate in front of each of us. “Warm goat cheese salad on a bed of butter lettuce with dried cranberries, toasted pine nuts, and a honey and shallot vinaigrette.”
“I’ve died and gone to heaven,” Lorelai declares. “Pretend you don’t notice if I get up and take my belt off.”
I love how easily she can joke about herself. Most women would be too worried their date would think they were fat if they made a comment like that. Although, I suppose we’re not really on a date, more’s the pity.
Maybe that’s why Lorelai can make fun so easily. Because she thinks of me like she does a brother. But then I remember that kiss from last week and know that can’t be true.
Speaking of her brother, I ask, “Is Noah coming back before your parents sell the house?”
“He has to pick up all his stuff,” she tells me. “But I don’t think he’ll stay for long. He’s definitely not a small-town guy.”
“I bet you could have some fun redesigning his apartment for him,” I tell her. “Noah’s space is nice, but the décor resembles what you’d think it would look like if a squatter had taken up residence.”
“It’s his use of take-out containers and piles of dirty clothes,” she laughs. “He’s been decorating with both for as long as I’ve known him.”
After several minutes, the waiter returns with our entrées, interrupting our conversation. “For you, the filet mignon with a truffle sauce,” he says, placing the plate in front of Lorelai. “And for you, sir, the duck confit.”
“Thank you,” I tell him, but my focus is entirely on Lorelai. She’s beaming at her meal, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight. It’s all I can do not to reach across the table and touch her.
“This is perfect," she says, her voice almost a purr.
“Maybe we can share.”
She lowers her eyes coyly. “It’s like you can read my mind.”
“Maybe I can,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light, but I can feel the tension tightening around us. Her comment about reading minds feels loaded, making me wonder if she knows just how often she’s on my mind.
As we begin eating, the conversation flows easily, yet the air between us buzzes with unspoken words. I steal glances at her, captivated by the way she savors each bite, her lips parting slightly, her lashes brushing her cheeks as she closes her eyes in appreciation.
“You have a little sauce,” I say, pointing to the corner of my own mouth to show her where. Without hesitation, she dips her napkin in water and wipes at the spot delicately.
“Better?” she asks, her voice soft, full of a playful challenge.
“Perfect,” I whisper, feeling the electricity crackle between us.
The rest of the meal continues in this charged atmosphere, each brush of our hands as we reach for our glasses, each shared smile, intensifying the connection. By the time the dessert arrives— a decadent chocolate mousse—I'm almost dizzy from the heady mix of food, wine, and her nearness.
As we dig into the dessert, she looks at me, her gaze steady. “You know, if we keep eating like this, we might have to start running marathons.”
“Are you a runner, too?” I ask.
With a small shake of her head, she answers, “Not unless you’re chasing me with a butcher’s knife with an intent to use it.”
“Then we’ll have to come up with another way to work off our meal.” I belatedly realize my comment may have sounded a little R-rated, so I clarify, “We could find a dog to walk.”
“Or,” she counters, “we could just enjoy the moment and worry about the repercussions later.”
Her smile is slow and knowing. As we savor the last bites, the tension transforms, morphing into something deeper, something undeniable. The waiter clears the plates, and for a moment, we just sit there, the weight of the unspoken hanging in the air between us.
I want to tell Lorelai how much I like her; how much I would like to date her for real, but considering her past feelings, I know that wouldn’t be fair. She’s made it clear she’s never going to leave Elk Lake, so there’s no point in making our inevitable goodbye harder than it will already be.
Lorelai breaks the tension by raising her hand to get the waiter’s attention. When he comes over, she says, “I’ll take the check.”
“Trina has taken care of that for you.” He adds, “She’s covered the tip, as well, so you’re good to go whenever you’re finished.”
Lorelai thanks him profusely before telling me, “That was an unexpected treat.”
“Those are the best kind.” My tone is heavy with innuendo, and I have to remind myself to pull it back.
Yet, as we stand and make our way to the exit, I can’t help but wonder if things were different, if tonight could have signaled a new beginning for us.
But instead of dancing around the edges of what could have been, I know what I have to do.