Page 106 of The Romance Line
He starts the car and cruises out of Russian Hill, past the Marina. As we’re crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, my shoulders feel lighter. My mind, a little more free. The city fades away and with it, my worries about being with someone I’m not supposed to be with vanish into the distance.
Or really, I choose to leave them behind.
He drives farther, past Petaluma and toward Lucky Falls, a small town in Wine Country where it’s always sunny and sixty-five degrees. Once we’re there, he cruises through the town square, then past it, toward the outskirts, where he pulls over outside a red farmhouse on a hill. But before he gets out, he runs a hand along my exposed shoulder. “I love that you wore this,” he says, his tone straightforward, no teasing in it.
“It’s for you,” I say, because he deserves to know how he makes me feel—wanted, accepted, desired with no reservations. “I wore it for you.”
He holds my gaze for a long beat, his eyes darkening as he says, “I want to keep earning that.”
I swallow roughly, unsure what to say next, but loving that he’s noticed I’m wearing less and showing more than I have in the longest time. And that he likes it. “I bet you will,” I finally say.
He scans outside of the car then, satisfied the coast is clear, he reaches for my hand and presses my palm to his mouth, giving me a soft kiss. “And now I get to show you what a date should be.”
I arch a challenging brow, returning to our playful ways. “But I thought you said lunches were weak,” I say, turning his words around on him.
His jaw drops. “Holy shit. I did say that.”
“What do you have to say for yourself now, Lambert?”
But his cocky smile returns as he runs a hand through my hair. “Don’t worry. I’m going to have you all to myself,” he says, then he lowers his voice, and repeats in a more sultry tone. “And then I’m going to have you all to myself.”
Arousal floods me from the double meaning, and I both want the lunch to last forever and to end.
With a deep breath like he has to gird himself to not touch me, he gets out of the car and comes around to my side, opening the door. “I love this place. I can’t wait to show it to you.”
There he goes again, making it harder for me not to fall.
I don’t want to ever leave. The menu is full of fresh salads and inventive risotto dishes, gourmet sandwiches and yummy pastas. But the view. Oh, the view.
“I’ve never been at a place more…serene,” I say, drinking in the surroundings. Since it’s, as promised, sixty-five degrees, we’re sitting outside under a huge oak tree that canopies our table. String lights hang from the branches. A few feet away is a stone path that travels up a small hill, bursting with golden and maroon fall colors, and hardy aster flowers. There are only a few other patrons, and their tables are at least ten feet away from us.
It’s a secret hideaway and that’s not the glass of wine I’ve had talking. It’s the quiet, warm afternoon away from the madness of our daily lives. “This place is like an escape. Where we don’t have to think about the promotion or the image makeover.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted for you,” he says, then adds, “My parents’ friends—Soren and Theo—run this restaurant and have for a couple decades. I asked my dad to text them for a res today.”
I lift a brow, pleased with this bit of intel—the level of planning he went to. “Nice of them to fit you in.” Even though I want to sayI kind of love you asked for your dad’s help for this date.
He laughs softly. “Yeah, I’m glad they had a table. It’s changed over the years but I love the feel of it.”
I look around at the quiet charm of this place. “Me too. It’s like I can…let go.” I relax into my chair with a sigh. “I guess I needed this.”
“I had a feeling,” he says, then leans closer, almost,almostlike he wants to take my hand. He doesn’t, though, and I half wish I hadn’t told him the other night that we had to be cautious, because right now I want to feel whatit’s like when he takes my hand at the table. But instead, he relies on words and says, “This place…it reminds me of a time before the cameras and media. When hockey was just my escape.” He tilts his head, then asks with real curiosity, like he’s been wanting to know this for ages, “What’s your escape, Everly?”
For a second, maybe several, I sit with that question. I know the answer. I want to give him the answer.
Even though there’s that worry in the back of my mind—what if he doesn’t receive what I have to give? What if he doesn’t want what I have to share?
But he’s opened up about his family, his grandfather, his sister. I need to give him more of me.
No. I want to. “This might sound…strange,” I begin.
“Try me,” he says.
“I escape into the studio.”
He tilts his head, clearly intrigued, but also surprised. Before he can say another word, I add, “It’s called Upside Down—the studio I go to. It’s a pole class.”
“Pole?”