Page 19 of Across the Boards

I should leave. I should absolutely stand up right now, thank him for dinner, and call a ride home. That would be the sensible thing to do. The safe thing.

Instead, I hear myself say, “They do have excellent tiramisu.”

His answering smile could power the entire restaurant. “Then it’s settled.”

The waiter appears to clear our plates and, at Brody’s request, brings the dessert menu. As we consider our options, I become acutely aware that we’re now essentially on a date. No buffer of friends. Just me and Brody Carter, hockey player, bookworm, and apparently, aspiring chef.

“So,” he says, breaking the momentary silence. “Beyond risotto preferences and technical editing, what should I know about Elliot Waltman?”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” I counter, deflecting out of habit.

“Because I want to know you,” he says simply. “The real you, not just the carefully edited version you show the world.”

His directness throws me. “That’s… a lot to ask from someone you’ve known for less than a day.”

“I’ve known you for years,” he corrects gently. “Not well, I admit. But enough to be intrigued.”

“By what?”

“By how someone who can demolish an entire table of hockey wives with literary references also hides behind her coffee mug when she’s nervous. By the way you listen—really listen—when people talk. By how you’ve rebuilt your life after Jason without becoming bitter.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m not bitter,” I say, trying for humor to mask how exposed his words make me feel.

“Cautious, yes. Reserved, definitely. But not bitter.” His eyes hold mine. “There’s a difference.”

The waiter returns to take our dessert order giving me a moment to collect myself.

“Your turn,” I say when we’re alone again. “What should I know about Brody Carter beyond the hockey stats and cooking skills?”

He considers this seriously. “I sleep with the window open even in winter. I’ve read every F. Scott Fitzgerald novel at least twice. I’m terrified of frogs. Not embarrassed—legitimately terrified. Oh, and I can’t whistle to save my life.”

I blink at this random assortment of facts. “Frogs?”

“Their legs, Elliot.” He shudders dramatically. “How do they jump so far with those spindly little legs? It’s unnatural.”

A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it. “You’re six-foot-two and built like a brick wall. How are you afraid of frogs?”

“First of all, thank you for noticing my physique,” he says with a wink that should be annoying but somehow isn’t. “Second, phobias are not rational. That’s literally their defining characteristic.”

“Fair enough,” I concede. “I’m afraid of those wind-up toy monkeys with cymbals.”

“See? You get it.”

“Their dead eyes,” I explain with a mock shiver. “Staring into your soul while they clang those tiny cymbals of doom.”

“This got dark quickly,” he observes with a grin.

“Shared phobias are the foundation of any good relationship,” I quip, then immediately regret my choice of words. “I mean?—”

“I agree completely,” he saves me from my awkwardness. “Nothing brings people together like mutual terror of small amphibians and toy monkeys.”

The desserts arrive, momentarily distracting us both. My tiramisu is perfect—layers of coffee-soaked ladyfingers and mascarpone cream dusted with cocoa. Brody’s chocolate cake oozes molten center when he cuts into it.

“How’s yours?” he asks, watching as I take my first bite.

“Mmm,” is all I can manage, closing my eyes briefly to savor the flavors.

When I open them, he’s watching me with that intense expression again, the one that makes my pulse quicken.

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