Page 69 of Kiss Me Now
He nodded and swirled some noodles onto his fork. “Good alfredo.”
We ate in silence for a couple of minutes, but the awkwardness made it feel like two hours.
“So what—”
“Is it me—”
He laughed. “It figures we’d both try to break the silence at the same time.”
I smiled back. “You go ahead. What were you going to say?”
“I’m wondering if it’s me or this whole evening has felt weird to you so far?”
“Super weird,” I confessed.
“Is it because we tried to treat it like a date? Wait,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t answer that. Of course it is. Sorry. I think I made it weird by coming to pick you up.”
“I made it weird by wearing a dress to dinner.”
He nodded. “You could always tuck it into your underwear. Bring things back to normal.”
I grinned. “I actually think that would make me feel better. But I’m not doing it.”
“Fair enough. So how do we reset?”
“How about if we call this not a date? And I pay for my own dinner and confess that I wish I had gotten the fettucine. I only got the ravioli because I thought I could eat it more neatly on a date than noodles.”
His face lit up. “I didn’t get the ravioli because I figured I’d probably drop some on my shirt and end up with a marinara stain. Want to trade? And never go on a date with each other again?”
“Heck, yes!” I said and held out my plate for the swap.
“So much better,” he said after his first bite of ravioli.
“No way. I came out better in that trade,” I answered after trying the fettucine. “Tastes even better when it’s seasoned with friendship.”
He held up his wine glass for a toast and I obliged. “To never tryingthatagain.”
“Cheers!”
Dinner went much better from there as we settled into our usual rhythm of jokes and school gossip. He dropped me off and I slipped in the house, grateful that we’d worked things out but frustrated that my eyes had searched for Ian’s car once again the second Miss Lily’s house was in view.
Ugh.
Get your mind right, Brooke. He’s a bad fit. Move on.
Which would have been far easier to do if a delivery man hadn’t rung my doorbell mid-morning the next day with a huge cardboard box.
“What is it?” I asked when I opened the door to the delivery guy.
“No idea,” he said. “Heavy sucker though.”
“Who’s it from?”
“Don’t know that either. Try the mailing sticker.”
“Thanks, I would have never thought of that,” I muttered as he jogged down the stairs.
He’d propped the box beside the front door, and it was as tall as I was. It was also very solid when I nudged it with my toe. He’d faced the shipping label inward, so I had to wrestle it around before I could find the sender. All it said was Virginia Woodcraft.
