Total pages in book: 199
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 192134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 961(@200wpm)___ 769(@250wpm)___ 640(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, reaching out to smooth his tie. “You don’t look bad yourself. I like you in a tie.”
“Note to self—skip the gym and keep the tie more often.” He drops a ten-dollar bill on the bar and slides off his stool, motioning toward the front of the restaurant. “Let’s see if our table’s ready. I checked with the hostess a few minutes ago, and she said it should be set soon.”
“Perfect. I’m starving,” I admit, shivering slightly as he puts his hand at the small of my back, guiding me through the growing crowd milling around the bar. Even through my clothes, his touch is enough to send electricity zipping across my skin.
“Cold?” he asks.
I shake my head, saved from having to say more as the hostess makes eye contact with Graham and motions for us to follow her up the steps to the dining area. I don’t know why I’m suddenly feeling so self-conscious, but I’m nearly as nervous as I was that first night at Patio West.
Okay, that’s a lie. I know exactly why I’m feeling self-conscious, and I decide to confront the issue head-on.
As soon as we’re seated with menus and the hostess has stepped away with assurances that our server will be with us soon, I brace my hands on the table and lean in to whisper, “Thank you for the flowers. And the dessert. I’m sorry we fought.”
Graham leans in, mirroring my pose. “We didn’t fight. We had conflicting opinions that were amicably resolved with assurances and presents.”
“Very nice presents. The flowers were incredible,” I continue in a soft voice. “But still. You were right. I was letting the meeting with Lucy affect my thinking when that really has nothing to do with us.”
“Exactly. That was a very different situation.”
“Totally different,” I whisper with a firm nod.
Graham’s forehead wrinkles as he whispers back, “Why are we whispering?”
My grin turns into a laugh. “I don’t know,” I say at normal volume, my shoulders relaxing away from my ears as I sit back in my chair. “Growing up, my dad had a thing about keeping dinner conversation light and as emotion-free as possible. I guess he got in my head a little.”
“Parents will do that to you,” Graham agrees. “I can’t leave the apartment without doing a walk-through to make sure all the lights are off. I keep hearing my dad’s voice in my head preaching the evils of wasting electricity.”
“Aw, Bob,” I say affectionately, thinking of his gruff, no-nonsense father, who loves to laugh—loudly—at anything and everything. “How’s he doing? Did they let him back in the fishing club yet?”
“Not yet,” Graham says. “But he and Mom took up tennis so he has an outlet for his competitive streak. From what he tells me, they’re crushing it in the mixed doubles over-fifty-five division in the local league.”
I shake my head in admiration. “That’s awesome.”
“It is. Now as long as they can resist the urge to play each other too often, they should be able to make it to the over-sixty-five division without filing for divorce. The only thing they love more than each other is winning.”
“No. I’ve seen the way they look at the other. You can’t fool me. They are proof that love can last.”
His smile softens. “Yeah, they are.”
I start to ask him if his mom’s still working part-time, when our server appears. Graham lifts a brow in my direction as he points to the menu. “The usual, I assume?”
I nod. “Yes, with the chimichurri on the side and—”
“No beans on the antipasto plate,” he finishes before communicating the rest of our order. We both love to try new things, but when the flank steak, truffle pasta, and antipasto variety platter are this good, I can’t bring myself to part from tradition.
“My mouth is already watering,” I confess, biting my lip as our server hurries away. “You’re going to have to fight me for the last mozzarella ball tonight.”
Graham laughs. “You can have it. I had more than my share last time we were here, before Thanksgiving, when you had to leave early so you wouldn’t miss your show. How was that one, by the way? Funny Farm, wasn’t it?”
“Fun Home,” I correct with a roll of my eyes. Graham is pretty well versed in the classic musicals, but I haven’t dragged his appreciation into the current century just yet. “It was incredible. Beautiful. Funny. Heart-wrenching. I ugly-cried so hard at the end I had to go to the ladies’ room as soon as the curtain was up and clean the mascara off my cheeks.”
His brows draw together in concern. “And that was an enjoyable night at the theater for you?”
I nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yes. It was. The story is about a lot of things, but the theme that got to me was how the fear and shame we don’t deal with as we grow up is passed on to our children. A kind of legacy of pain, you know? And how loving and accepting yourself, even when society is telling you that you don’t deserve love, truly is a gift you give the world, not just the person in the mirror. I thought that was beautiful. And important.”