Page 61 of Digging Up Love
“I don’t love the idea of my students speculating about us.” Not that there was anything left to speculate about. “But ever since we met, I haven’t been able to get you off my mind. And our kiss ...” He darted his eyes toward her, then back to the road. “Our kiss felt like—” Like everything he ever wanted and exactly what he needed. Lightning and a gentle rain. Still waters and stardust.
“I really like spending time with you, Alisha.” Feeling exposed, he pulled off onto the shoulder to let a rumbling tractor pass. “So if you’re asking, ‘Am I willing to give this a try?’ Then the answer is yes. Very much, yes.”
“You’re up for giving this a try.” She shot her eyes toward him, a familiar glint of mischief in their depths. “Even though our first date ended with you getting up close and personal with the business end of a Hula-Hoop and our last date nearly gave you hay fever?”
The seasick churning in his stomach eased, and he managed a grin. “I’ll have you know I regret nothing about showcasing my Hula-Hooping skills. I plan to wear that undersize Back Forty T-shirt every chance I get.” She chuckled, and he went on, bolder now. “And hay fever? Is that what the cool kids are calling it these days?” He winked. “Besides, that’s not what I remember most about the barn.”
“It isn’t?” Her words ended in an adorable squeak, and her eyes dropped to his lips. “Me neither,” she admitted. Her tongue flicked out and moistened her lips, and the memory of their delicious slide into one another had him biting down on his own tongue to keep himself in check.
“I’m willing to give it a try, Alisha, but are you?”
A flash of light glinted off the crucifix she slid back and forth along the gold chain. The pressure in the cab built under the weight of her indecision until he felt his ears would pop.
“I am.” She leaned over and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. The ball of worry in his chest unknotted into gossamer threads of hope.
He shifted into drive and eased back onto the road. She picked up the bouquet, tracing a finger along the petals. “These gerbera daisies are gorgeous, by the way.”
“Is that what those are called? They reminded me of you.” The big, bold, beautiful Alisha he’d come to know behind the passive exterior she put on for the world.
“If this is our first official date, I feel like we should get some formalities out of the way. Name, occupation, pet peeves.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her nod. Brisk and businesslike. He fought a grin at how cute she was.
“I’m Alisha Marianne Blake, a pastry chef who can bake an out-of-this-world chocolate chip cookie and an even better macaron. I think canned pie filling is the devil’s work. And canned biscuits? Don’t get me started. I’m a reluctant country girl who’s moving to Chicago.” She paused, and he ventured a glance and met those gorgeous dark eyes of hers. “And who are you, Man Who Picked Me Up in His Truck?”
“Quentin Cecilio Harris, your Uber driver. I hear you’re on your way to an awesome date, so don’t forget to tip.”
“Cecilio, huh?”
“My grandfather’s name,” he said, nerves making him chatty.
But Alisha smiled. “I love family names. My middle name is my mother’s.” She bunched her dress in one fist, then turned to him, eyes shining. “Can you say it again?”
“Cecilio?”
“Yes. I like that.” She repeated the name, rolling it on her tongue.
He bit his lip. “Sometimes you’re surprising.”
“Is that a good thing?”
Normally no, but for some reason he didn’t mind being knocked off balance by Alisha. He regarded her out of the corner of his eye, beautiful and funny and strong and unexpected.
Wasit a good thing? “Absolutely.” He grinned. “And actually, this isn’t strictlymytruck.”
“Is this your way of telling me I’m riding in a carjacked vehicle?” She reached for the door handle in mock horror.
“That would lend some excitement to the evening, right? But no, it’s my dad’s. I don’t have much use for one, living so near campus.”
“Ah, that explains the decor.” Alisha waved her hand at the hula figurine on the dash and the small Virgin Mary medal hanging from the mirror.
“Mary is my mom’s addition,” Quentin said with a wry shrug.
“To balance out the hula girl?” Alisha chuckled. “Your family’s Catholic?”
“Mom is, so Hector and I are. Dad’s still on the fence.”
“Me too! Mom converted when she married my father.” She swept her eyes down him. “I had you pegged for a Catholic schoolboy.”
“You did not.”
