I blink. He zeroed right in on that sentence when I didn’t even think about it being deep when I said it.
He has a high emotional IQ, I think.
Tick.
“Yes,” I say, smiling. “It is.”
“Okay, next book then,” Brady says.
I hold up the next book for him to see. His eyes sparkle in amusement when he reads the title.
“A guide to household organization,” he says.
“Nothing brings me greater joy than organizing my house,” I tell him. “I love cute bins and boxes and labeling. I’m obsessed with my label maker. I use it all the time.”
Brady’s beautifully asymmetrical lips twist in amusement. “I don’t know if I should tell you this.”
“Tell me what?”
“You know Brody, and you might assume I’m like him. He’s a minimalist. Hell, that’s why he moved in with Hayley and gave up that awesome apartment. It was easier than moving all her kitchen gadgets.”
I burst out laughing. “Hayley always said it was because they didn’t want to upset Pissy with moving.”
“Well, I can believe that. Pissy is crazy,” Brady says.
“Not crazy, just very …” I pause, searching for the right word. “Particular. But I still think Brody having to move basically nothing but clothing and surfboards had a huge part of downsizing to her apartment instead of his.”
“Well, I’m not like Brody in many ways, and I might as well share this now. I’m completely disorganized. I lose my keys. My phone. If it weren’t for automatic electronic bill pay, I’d have no water or electricity.”
I wince. “Surely, it’s not that bad.”
Brady runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, it kinda is.”
I set the book down and slide it across the table to him. “Then you need this.”
He furrows his brow, and I laugh.
“I’m totally messing with you,” I say.
“You say that now,” he replies, grinning.
And I’m sure I’ll say it later, too, I think as I become lost in his smile.
“Okay, next book,” I continue, refocusing. I pick up the one resting on top of what is left of my stack and hold it up.
Brady smiles. “The Little Red Hen.”
“Yes! This is my favorite childhood story.”
“How come?”
“Well, I could give you some deep meaning, like how the fact that nobody helped the red hen and she learned to rely on herself resonated with my little soul, but that’s not it. I was obsessed with the fact that she baked her own bread. She didn’t go to the store and buy it; she knew how to make it. That made it the coolest book ever.”
His smile widens. “I bet you were adorable as a little girl.”
“I was a hot mess. Stubborn. And I dragged this book everywhere. And if my mom or dad tried to read a different bedtime story, I threw a fit. Absolute meltdown mode.”
“Note taken—do not mess with Addison’s favorite books,” he says, his eyes shining brightly at me.
I set the book down and pick up the last one. “And last but not least, this is a hobby of mine,” I say, revealing the last book. “‘The Great Big Book of Crochet. This is my new hobby. Or so I hope.”
“So you hope?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m still questing for a hobby I can stick with. See, I love craft stores as much as I love bookstores, and whenever I go in, I get sucked into some hobby I have to try. So far, I’ve either failed miserably in my attempts to master it or gotten bored with the ones I have chosen.”
“Sounds like you have commitment issues,” Brady says, picking up the fork and spearing another piece of cake.
I laugh. “When it comes to crafting, apparently I do.”
We continue to talk, and after we have finished our drinks, my heart tells me this date is at an end.
I wonder if he’ll kiss me.
Nervousness fills me. He has been such a gentleman, so he might not. Or maybe a sweet kiss on the lips.
Or maybe a slow, delicious, exploring kiss.
Now that makes me almost flustered, as that is the kind of kiss that tells you everything. If there’s chemistry. Brady might be a a good kisser, but he might not be the best kisser for me. So much rides on that one moment, and because I’m so intrigued by him, I can’t imagine our kiss not connecting in that wonderful, butterfly-inducing, heart-racing kind of way.
Wait. What if I think he’s a fantastic kisser, and he thinks I’m a horrible kisser?
Oh, no, that would be awful!
Or what if he kisses me and feels nothing?
It could happen.
Or I could be the hottest first kiss he has ever had.
Much better visual. I will go with that one.
“It’s late,” Brady says, interrupting my thoughts. “I should walk you back to your car.”
I blink. Heat pools in my cheeks. I’m so grateful he has no idea of the thoughts running through my head about him at this moment.
“Okay,” I say, rising from my seat.
Brady quickly gets up and helps me with my coat. I thank him, and then his hand brushes against mine, searching for my palm, and soon our fingers are entwined. My pulse leaps the second I feel his hand, his warmth, his masculine skin. I love that the sensation is new, but no longer an unfamiliar one.
We head out onto the street, and I lead Brady back to the direction of my car. The walk seems significantly shorter than I remember it being earlier this evening.
“I’m up ahead,” I say, hitting the fob on my key and watching the lights flicker.
Brady is quiet as we take the last few steps toward my car. Within seconds, we are standing next to it on the sidewalk. I turn and look up at him, happy that he hasn’t let go of my hand yet, and watch as the blustery spring wind tousles his hair.
“I think this is the part where I say good night,” Brady says.
I can’t breathe. My head is spinning round and round with “will he kiss me or won’t he kiss me” thoughts.
“Thank you for a wonderful date tonight,” I say. “I had such a fabulous time.”
Brady continues to gaze down at me. A shiver whips down my spine as I take in his eyes, his nose, his beautiful lips.
“I did, too,” he says, his thumb now circling my knuckles in a slow, deliberate manner.
Another silence falls between us.
I think my heart is going to beat out of my chest.
“In those books you like to read,” Brady says, stepping closer and dropping his voice, “is it appropriate for the man to kiss a woman after the first date?”
Ooh!
I lick my lips nervously. His eyes immediately shift to my mouth.
“Well, you would have already scandalized me by taking me out in public without a chaperone,” I say.
“What happens when a woman is scandalized?” he asks.
“She is what they call compromised, and the couple is usually forced to marry.”
Brady’s lips curve upwards in an amused smile. “I’ve compromised you, then.”
I nod. “If you didn’t marry me, you’d be a rake. And I’d be ruined if this were Regency times.”
“Interesting. So I’ve already compromised you, as you say, so would you allow me to damage your reputation further?”