8. Joni
Joni
Without asking where I want to have dinner, Enzo drives us out of town to Rose Creek. It’s only twenty minutes from Grinberry Falls, but that’s far enough to cut the chances of running into anyone we know on a weeknight.
I don’t think he cares who sees us together, but I’m sure he knows I’ll be more comfortable if we can keep this dinner out of the rumor mill.
Rose Creek also has better restaurant options, including my favorite Italian place, which is apparently where we’re going.
“How’d you know I like Lombardo’s?”
“Does anyone not like this place? Great Italian food, steaks, good beer and wine selection . . . you didn’t think I’d take you to a dump on our first date, did you?”
D-d-what? He thinks this is a date? Oh, shit. This is a date.
I haven’t been on a dinner date in . . .
since Bryan. Not any kind of real date. Glynnis called it correctly.
I’ve had encounters, not date-dates. I know how to meet for a drink and go from there, not sit across from each other with a white tablecloth between us, lingering over fresh pasta and wine, engaging in meaningful conversation .
. . I don’t even know what to talk about on a real date.
“We might not be able to get in without a reservation,” I say.
“I made a reservation while you were changing your clothes.”
“You got a table at Lombardo’s at the last minute?”
“It’s a weeknight. Never hurts to try. Guess I got lucky.” He puts the truck in park and gets out.
I have my door halfway open when he appears and takes over the task, offering his hand to help me out of his truck. I drive a truck, too. I’m used to hopping down out of one on my own, but I guess that’s not date-date appropriate behavior, so I accept his help.
His hand is strong and warm, thick fingers, prominent veins. This is the first time we’ve ever touched, and my brain is cataloguing every sensory and physical detail . . . until the illusion of first touch bursts like a delicate bubble.
This hand has definitely touched me before, just not above water. My gaze drops to ensure my feet land on solid ground. And to hide my flushed cheeks.
The first time he touched me I couldn’t see his hand—not until it was dripping bubbles onto my bathroom rug. It’s a damn nice hand. He’s released mine now that I’ve safely exited his truck. Bold of him to assume I can walk without assistance at the moment.
I manage to take a step, and he steps next to me. He opens the restaurant door and holds it for me to enter ahead of him, but again, he quickly steps beside me once we’re inside.
As we approach the hostess stand, he settles his palm at the small of my back so naturally, as if we always move through the world connected like this.
Anyone looking up from their table wouldn’t be able to see the subtle quake this particular touch initiates in my core, the tiny tremble it causes in my legs.
Enzo’s not a wine drinker. I just learned this about him. I’d forgotten that part of a first date, or dating in general. The getting-to-know-each-other phase can be treacherous, but he’s easy to talk to.
He orders a beer to pair with his Osso Buco, and I have cabernet with my Bolognese.
I try not to bring up my remodel, but when I slip and mention my new appliances, I quickly joke, “Well, now that we’ve discussed business, you can write this meal off on your taxes.”
“I’m not looking to write off any time I spend with you.”
“You know I’m too old for you, right?”
“Age is just a number. But whatever your number is, it’s not too old.”
“It’s thirty-nine.”
“I’m twenty-eight. We’re practically the same age.”
He’s sweet. And beautiful. And entirely wrong.
“You were in kindergarten when I lost my virginity.”
“So that’s what caused the disturbance in the atmosphere that knocked me off the slide that day.”
I try not to laugh, but damn, he’s witty.
“Not unless you were on the playground at midnight.”
“Not when I was five. But just to put my mind at ease, you didn’t really have sex for the first time on a slide, did you?”
“No. It was in a recliner.”
“Risky. I hope nobody fell off.”
“Surprisingly, there were no injuries. Hope you didn’t get hurt falling off the slide.”
“Just my pride.”
“Yeah, mine might’ve gotten a little bruised in that recliner, too.”
We laugh with no regard for the disruption it might cause, not even a modest attempt to be quiet or respectful, just boisterous and uninhibited laughter until my eyes water.
This is how dates are supposed to be. Two people meet, they get to know each other, and see where it goes.
I feel like this night has the potential to go somewhere it shouldn’t.
But what if Sabrina and Glynnis are right about a fling being harmless?
Who am I to think I hold the power to break this guy’s heart, anyway?
I can be a little stubborn at times, but as far as I know, I’ve never ruined anyone’s life.
He’s grown—over a decade less grown than I am, but that’s still an adult. It’s not like I’m some desperate older woman who’s going to get pathetically attached to him. I’ve never been codependent, not even in my twenties. Enzo’s not that type either.
If only we could’ve put this date off until after my renovation was done, the situation would’ve been a lot less complicated.
But he showed up with that damn bag of rice, and my closed heart opened like a recliner at maximum tilt. The gesture knocked me off-kilter before I realized what was happening. It was so sweet. A little silly. Completely unpretentious.
Then he hit me with that deep voice, promising nothing that happens on this date will be an accident . . .
Let’s just say it caused a disturbance in my atmosphere. It definitely felt like I fell off something, that’s for sure.
The server presents the dessert tray. Everything looks delicious, an array of temptations that shouldn’t be so appealing after the generous portion of pasta I nearly finished, but one look and my mouth waters for a taste of every option.
We decide to share the chocolate torte. It’s rich and creamy, a flawless balance of bitter and sweet. I’ve had this torte before, and I’ve always enjoyed it, but it seems elevated tonight, even more satisfying than I remember.
I’d lick the fork after my last bite, but I may have already made a soft, barely audible, but borderline obscene sound when I took the first bite, and I’m opting to retain what’s left of my dignity here.
To his credit, Enzo responded to my wanton purr with nothing more than a slow smile and a nod of agreement. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since, though. I’ve never been observed so intently from across a table, or maybe anywhere.
We’ve learned some things about each other on this date: we have a similar sense of humor, the same taste in dessert, and if his eyes are to be believed, we are equally curious about what the rest of this night might reveal.