Page 37 of Fighting Gravity

Yes, you can take me out. Butnothing can top last weekend.

He’d cooked, loved her body, talked with her about everything and nothing, then let her be. The weekend had been perfection. And she had told herself it would—should—end there.

Her phone dinged again.But you’ll let me try?

Their Friday lunch meeting at OrbitAll would be safer, but shewantedto see him, despite the lingering alarm at the words they’d shared last time they were alone together.When and where?

You know the park where the symphony plays?

The summer concert series was one of her favorite events. To be surrounded by water and classical music was bliss, but the season had been cancelled due to construction of the new bandstand. She wondered what Tate had planned at the beautiful bayfront park.

Yes, she responded.

Meet me there at seven.

The next evening, Rosie shoved off her third dress in frustration. None of them felt right. Her nerves were fried. Her workday had crawled by at a snail’s pace. Not even catching up on space podcasts helped the clock move faster. Stupid physics.

Now she was about to spend the evening with Tate. On a real date. She’d be gnawing her nails if she hadn’t spent time painting them the night before.

Finally, she chose a jersey boatneck summer dress for the balmy evening, thin navy and white stripes, and paired the dress with tan wedge sandals. The outfit should work for just about anything Tate had planned. She hoped. She popped in a piece of mint gum, applied deep red lipstick that matched her auburn hair, and smoothed her tumbling tresses. Time to see the man who had her in such a flutter.

There were a couple dozen cars in the lot at the park. Rosie climbed out of her SUV, straightened her dress, and started making her way down the tree-lined sidewalk to the concert venue. During a regular season, the place would be crushed with people waiting in line. Inside, chairs and blankets would cover the sprawling green lawn. She walked past the empty ticket booth and through the open gate.

There were only two chairs on the lawn now, and one gorgeous man standing next to them. Behind him, a half-constructed stage full of musicians tested and tuned instruments.

Rosie’s heart thumped painfully. What had Tate done for her?

Despite her earlier concerns, she moved into his arms without hesitating. Her hands traveled across the satiny fabric of his shirt and the solid muscles of his back. “You arranged a private concert for me? Really?”

He kissed her cheek. “Do you like it?”

Rosie shook her head. She didn’t cry as easily as Elle, but right then she came close. This was a date out of a dream. “No. Iloveit. How did you know that the symphony is one of my favorite San Diego activities?”

He smiled. “Lucky guess. I did have help with the food, however.”

Rosie released him to glance at the ground. Next to a checkered blanket sat an overflowing picnic basket.

“I had no idea where to get a picnic basket. I had to ask Quinn.”

She smiled, still reeling from the latest evidence of Tate’swhole worldfeelings for her. Rosie felt like the center of his everything right then. She’d never be able to properly thank him. “Wheredoyou get a picnic basket?”

“Williams Sonoma, apparently.”

“An orchestral picnic is amazing, Tate. Perfect.”

“Those are the words I was going for.”

Her stomach hadn’t stopped tumbling. The loving look in his aqua eyes didn’t help. She needed a distraction before she melted into a puddle of gratitude at his feet. Rosie took a seat on the blanket, tucking her legs to the side. He did the same. “Hungry?”

“Always when you’re around.” He punctuated with a nip at her shoulder that sent goose bumps racing across her skin.

“Behave,” she warned. But she couldn’t help smiling at his smirk.

She dug through the basket while Tate opened wine, a pink bubbly that had long been her favorite. “Elle,” he said in answer to her questioning look.

Rosie nodded. Elle, the birthday fairy. She loaded plates with cheese and olives and crackers and fruit.

He touched her. Small brushes of her exposed ankle, her arm, her hair. They were sweet gestures that still ran deep. She didn’t care what the symphony would be playing; it had already been a perfect night. The perfect date. All orchestrated by the perfect man.

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