Chapter 14 The First Date
The First Date
Harper
I push open the restaurant door and I’m immediately greeted by the low hum of conversation and warm lighting that softens everything into honey-gold tones.
The kind of place that’s nice without being intimidating, with exposed brick walls and soft jazz playing just loud enough to create atmosphere without drowning out conversation.
I spot Cole immediately—he’s leaning back in a corner booth, menu open in front of him, but his eyes are scanning the room like he’s taking everything in.
When our gazes meet across the restaurant, something in his posture shifts.
Not dramatically, but there’s this small, almost imperceptible smile that spreads across his face, and suddenly all his attention is focused entirely on me.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, suddenly hyperaware of the click of my heeled boots against the hardwood floor as I weave between tables toward him.
He stands as I reach the table, which catches me off guard in the best way. “Glad you made it.”
“Thanks for waiting,” I reply, sliding into the seat across from him, trying to ignore the way the simple gesture of him standing makes something flutter in my chest.
There’s no over-the-top compliment about how I look, no cheesy line about how the lighting brings out my eyes.
Just steady, unhurried attention that’s somehow more disarming than any amount of charm could be.
The air between us feels calm but not empty like we’re both settling into something that could be good if we don’t overthink it.
“So,” I say, picking up my menu, “what’s the food situation here? Are we talking actual cuisine or just fancy versions of sports bar food?”
He grins, flipping straight to what I assume is the meat section. “Definitely actual food. Though I may have chosen this place specifically because they have a steak that’s been calling my name for weeks.”
“Very predictable,” I tease. “Let me guess—rare, loaded potato, side of masculinity?”
“Medium-rare, thank you. I’m not a caveman.” His laugh is warm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. “What about you? Let me guess... you’re going straight for the pasta because you’re a creature of habit.”
I narrow my eyes at him over the top of my menu. “How did you—” I look down and realize I’ve already gravitated toward the linguine with clam sauce. “Okay, as if that’s not the most obvious thing here.”
“Lucky guess,” he says sarcastically.
I shyly smile as I look at the menu.
I can feel him watching me with an amused expression that suggests he can handle my sense of humor.
When he finally looks at his menu, I glance at him and find myself noticing details about him that I missed during our first dinner.
His eyelashes are long, cheekbones are high, and he has good hair.
He has quite a large Adam’s apple, and frankly, it’s hot.
His lips are full but not too overwhelming.
He has a boyish charm to him, a glint in his eye.
When the server comes to take our order, Cole asks thoughtful questions about preparation and ingredients, the kind of person who actually reads the menu instead of just picking something at random.
It’s such a small thing, but it says something about the way he approaches decisions—carefully, with attention to detail.
“So,” he says once we’ve ordered and the server has disappeared with our menus, “tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“That’s a dangerously open-ended question.”
“I’m feeling brave tonight,” he quips with a patient look on his face.
I take a sip of the wine he suggested—something crisp and light that pairs perfectly with the warm lighting and his easy smile.
“Okay, something random. I went to Italy last summer with my mom. We were supposed to do this whole cultural immersion thing, visit museums and historical sites, really soak up the Renaissance experience.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, we spent three days in Rome eating gelato and people-watching in piazzas because my mom decided art was overrated compared to watching Italian men argue about soccer.”
His eyes stay fixed on me the entire time I’m talking, not darting to his phone or the couple at the table next to us who are having what sounds like a very dramatic breakup conversation.
It’s unnerving in the best possible way, the kind of attention that makes me hyperaware of every expression crossing my face.
“Sounds like my kind of vacation,” he says. “Did you at least see the Colosseum?”
“We walked by it. Does that count?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then no, we did not see the Colosseum. But I can tell you where to find the best cacio e pepe in Trastevere and exactly which piazza has the most entertaining lunch crowd.”
“Those seem like more useful skills than being able to identify Renaissance architecture.”
“That’s what I told my mom.”
There are pauses in our conversation, but it’s the comfortable kind that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter. During one of them, I take another sip of wine and catch him watching me again, like he’s studying the way I think between sentences.
“What?” I ask, setting down my glass.
He shakes his head slightly, lips curving into that small smile I’m starting to recognize. “Nothing. Just... you’re easy to talk to.”
It’s such a simple comment, but something about the way he says it—genuine, a little surprised—makes warmth spread through my chest. Like he wasn’t expecting this to be so effortless.
“So are you,” I say, and mean it. “Tell me about hockey. Not the games or the stats, but what it’s actually like. Behind the scenes.”
His expression shifts slightly, becoming more thoughtful.
“It’s... consuming. Early mornings that start before the sun comes up, ice time that never feels like enough, injuries that you play through because sitting out means letting your team down.
The pressure never really lets up, even in the off-season. ”
He pauses, considering his words. “People see the games and think it’s all glory and adrenaline, but most of it is just work. Really hard, really repetitive work that you have to love enough to keep showing up for even when your body’s screaming at you to quit.”
“Do you love it enough?”
“Most days.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes meeting mine over the glass. “The days I don’t, I remember that it won’t last forever, and that I’ll miss it when it’s gone.”
There’s something refreshingly honest about the way he talks—no false modesty or inflated ego, just the reality of someone who’s found something he’s good at and is willing to work harder than most people can imagine to keep doing it.
He’s not selling me an image, he’s letting me see the work beneath the surface.
And I find myself wanting to know more.
Our appetizer arrives—something with burrata and roasted tomatoes that we end up sharing without really discussing it.
The conversation flows easily from hockey to my classes to travel to books we’ve read recently.
He listens like he’s actually interested in my answers, asks follow-up questions that show he’s been paying attention.
By the time our main courses arrive, I’ve almost forgotten this is technically a date. It feels more like hanging out with someone I’ve known much longer than a few days.
“Okay, confession time,” I say, twirling linguine around my fork. “I was nervous about tonight.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you seem...” I pause, trying to find the right words. “Put together. Like you have your life figured out in a way that makes the rest of us look like we’re just winging it.”
He laughs, nearly choking on his bite of steak. “Trust me, I’m winging it as much as anyone else. I just happen to be very good at making lists and pretending I know what I’m doing.”
“The lists thing explains a lot, actually.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad. It’s just very... you. Organized.”
“You say that like it’s a character flaw.”
“It’s not. It’s actually kind of nice. Refreshing.” I take another sip of wine, feeling more relaxed than I have all week. “Most guys our age can barely remember to do laundry, let alone plan anything more complicated than what to have for dinner.”
“Low bar,” he observes.
“Devastatingly low. You’d be amazed how impressive basic competence can be.”
Dessert arrives—tiramisu that we decide to split without much discussion. When I reach for my fork at the same time he does, our hands brush briefly. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but my pulse jumps anyway.
His eyes lift to mine at the exact same moment, and the air between us shifts, tightening just enough to notice.
Neither of us comments on it, but neither of us looks away immediately either.
The moment stretches, filled with possibility and the kind of awareness that makes me suddenly conscious of my breathing.
He let’s me grab the fork, so I do and take a bite.
“Mmm. Good tiramisu,” I say finally, my voice slightly rougher than intended.
He grabs another fork and takes a bite.
“Yeah,” he agrees, but his eyes are still on mine. “Really good.”
When the check comes, he handles it smoothly, without making a production out of paying or arguing when I offer to split it. Just a quick, decisive gesture that suggests this was never a question for him.
As we walk toward the door, he opens it for me without breaking our conversation about whether Die Hard counts as a Christmas movie.
Outside, the night air feels cooler and sharper than when I arrived, but I’m warm all over from wine and good conversation and the way he’s looking at me like he’s already planning when he can see me again.
“Thank you for dinner,” I say as we reach the spot where our cars are parked in opposite directions. “This was really nice.”
“It was.” He pauses, hands in his pockets, looking like he wants to say something else. “Can I call you?”
The question is simple, straightforward, but something about the way he asks it—like the answer actually matters to him—makes my heart skip.
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” That smile again, small but devastating. “Drive safe, Harper.”
I’m halfway to my car before I realize I’m smiling for no reason except that I already want to see him again. And for the first time in months, that feeling doesn’t scare me.
It feels right.