22. Dannica #2
I would feel less exposed standing in the middle of town hall in beige granny panties. At least then I’d know exactly what people were looking at.
I pause, pen hovering over the form, my stomach doing a completely unnecessary flip.
Right. Focus. Tomatoes. Flour. Coffee beans. Normal things. Not feelings. Definitely not feelings.
I press the pen to paper again, grounding myself in the scratch of ink and the neat, predictable lines of the form. Because if I just keep working, if I just keep moving, maybe I can pretend this isn’t a big deal.
Even though it very clearly is.
I finish the last line on the requisition form and cap the pen like that somehow seals the moment. Tomatoes. Flour. Coffee beans. Dignity—currently out of stock.
The bell over the door jingles as I step out of the diner. I’m about to grab my bike when I see him.
Teddy is leaning against his car, one ankle crossed over the other, arms loose, head tipped slightly back. The last of the light catches along his jaw, the line of his throat, the way his shirt sits across his shoulders.
My steps falter for half a second before I recover and keep walking, because staring is not subtle.
He looks… edible.
He straightens when he sees me, that easy smile sliding into place like it belongs there. Like it’s only for me. My mouth goes bone-dry.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hi.”
I stop a step too close, then shift back half a step, then immediately regret that because now it looks like I don’t know how personal space works. Which, to be fair, I currently don’t.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, even though the answer feels obvious now that he’s standing in front of me looking like that.
“Picking you up,” he says.
I nod like this is completely normal and not something that just made my pulse spike.
“I was going to go home first,” I say, gesturing vaguely at myself. “Get changed.”
His gaze tracks slowly down my body, making me very aware of everything I’m wearing. The shirt, the jeans, the fact that I’ve been standing near a fryer for most of the day.
“Why?” he asks.
I blink at him, then look down at myself again, because—what?
“Because this is a date?” I say, like it should be obvious to anyone with functioning eyesight.
He looks at me again, slower this time. “There’s nothing wrong with what you’re wearing,” he says. “You always look beautiful.”
Oh. Well.
That was not the expected response.
My brain scrambles for something to deflect that.
A joke. A comment about grease stains or the lingering scent of fries.
Something that will put this back into safe territory.
I come up with nothing because that’s a really lovely thing to hear, and for some reason, saying so feels far more dangerous than any joke.
“Right,” I say instead, which is deeply inadequate.
He laughs lightly, as if he knows my brain short-circuited. “Come on,” he says, pushing off the car and opening the passenger door.
“I need to lock up my bike.”
He walks over to us… I mean me—me and my bike—and swoops it up. “Okay if it just sits inside until morning?”
His biceps shift under his fitted sweater, and I forget that he asked a question and expects an answer.
He smirks like he knows exactly what’s happening. Which is fair, because it’s pretty obvious.
“Uh… yeah…”
I fumble with the keys, though given that I’ve lost all ability to behave like a fully functional adult, I think I’m doing remarkably well. He rests the bike against the wall, then I lock up and get in his Jeep before I can overthink it.
The interior is warm, and the clean, woodsy scent of him wraps around me almost immediately.
He closes the door and rounds the front, and I find myself watching without meaning to.
The way he moves, easy and unhurried, like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
Which still surprises me a little, considering he comes from LA. Isn’t life there rushed?
He gets in, and the space suddenly feels smaller. Or maybe it’s just that he’s closer now.
I shift slightly in my seat, aware of the warmth coming off him—or at least I think I am. It could be the car. It could be me. It could be the fact that my body has decided this is a moment worth reacting to.
He starts the engine, one hand on the wheel. The other brushes mine as he reaches for the gear shift. It’s barely a ghost of a touch, but it’s enough to send a small, sharp spark up my arm. I go very still as we make eye contact.
For a second, something lingers between us. A warmth that’s quiet and charged. I look away first, folding my hands in my lap like that will somehow make me less aware of him.
It doesn’t.
“Ready?” he asks when he turns off the engine.
“Of course,” I say, like I haven’t just spent the entire car ride acutely aware of his elbow existing.
He comes around to my side and opens the door. I step out, smoothing my hands down my pants. The rate at which I’ve been sweating makes me think I might need to seek professional help.
We head inside, and the second I step through the door, I stop.
The dining room table has been set, and it’s immediately clear this is not a “threw something together and hoped for the best” situation. He put effort into this.
A clean tablecloth stretches across the surface, smoothed out like he took a moment to make sure it didn’t sit weird in the middle.
Two place settings face each other, but nothing overly formal.
Plates centered, cutlery lined up in a way that suggests he either knows what he’s doing or committed very confidently to a guess.
Candles sit between them at different heights, flames flickering softly and catching in the glassware, making the room feel cozier.
A bottle of wine sits open, already breathing, two glasses set close enough that reaching for one means inevitably brushing the other.
A cloth napkin rests at each place, folded simply, to complete the aesthetic.
I notice one fork is maybe a fraction out of line.
Or I imagine it is. Hard to tell if that’s real or if I’m just looking for something to prove this wasn’t executed by a professional.
I step closer, my fingers brushing the edge of the table, grounding myself, because I’m feeling a little nervous.
“Oh,” I say. That is apparently all I have.
He watches me take it in, one hand rubbing lightly at the back of his neck. “I hope it’s okay.”
I let out a breath. “It’s more than okay. It’s… really nice.”
Understatement of the year.
The way he’s looking at me makes my mouth go dry.
He steps closer and gestures toward my coat. “May I?”
I nod, turning slightly as he slides it off my shoulders. His fingers brush my skin as he does, and my body reacts with a faint shiver I hope he doesn’t notice. He hangs my coat, then turns back.
“Wine?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “Wine is good.”
Smiling, he pours the wine and hands me a glass. Our fingers brush as I take it, another electric spark shooting up my arm. I take a sip, more for something to do than anything else.
“Whatever’s going on in the kitchen smells amazing.”
He lifts his glass slightly. “Beef stroganoff. Ready to heat when you’re ready.”
We sit, the chairs angled just enough that we’re facing each other properly. The candlelight softens his face, making it a little too easy to just look at him. Which I definitely don’t do. Consistently. At all.
I set my glass down, my fingers lingering on the stem.
“I did something today,” I say, because I’ve decided to lean into this whole honesty thing.
He leans forward slightly, his attention settling on me and only me. “Yeah?”
“I finished that piece,” I say, my voice quieter now. “About everything. And I… posted it.”
His eyebrows lift just slightly. “You posted it?”
“On the community board. And I put copies in all the menus at the diner.”
His mouth curves, like he’s trying not to laugh but also kind of impressed. “Of course you did.”
“It felt like a good idea at the time,” I say.
“It still is,” he replies easily.
I look at him, caught off guard by how certain he sounds.
“May I read it?” he asks.
My grip tightens slightly on the stem of my glass. “You already read most of it. You got the exclusive preview.”
He smiles at that. “I want to read the finished version.”
My stomach flips, but not in a bad way.
“I could always go to the grocery store and read it there, if you prefer.”
The breath rushes out of me. I’m being silly. Obviously.
I hand him my phone anyway, immediately conscious of how exposed that feels. Here are my thoughts, please don’t ruin me with them. Sitting there while he reads feels like a terrible plan, so I clear my throat.
“Do you mind if I wander a bit?” I ask, gesturing vaguely like this is a museum and not his home.
“Not at all,” he says, already focused on the screen.
I move through his space slowly, mostly so I don’t hover over him like a nervous hawk waiting for a reaction.
Also because I’m suddenly very aware this is his place, his things, his life, and I didn’t really take any of it in last time I was here.
Last time, all I was focused on was sex and writing.
Huh. That could be a band name.