Page 33 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
He stands as I reach the table, which catches me off guard in the best way. “Glad you made it.”
“Thanks for waiting,” I reply, sliding into the seat across from him, trying to ignore the way the simple gesture of him standing makes something flutter in my chest.
There’s no over-the-top compliment about how I look, no cheesy line about how the lighting brings out my eyes. Just steady, unhurried attention that’s somehow more disarming than any amount of charm could be. The air between us feels calm but not empty like we’re both settling into something that could be good if we don’t overthink it.
“So,” I say, picking up my menu, “what’s the food situation here? Are we talking actual cuisine or just fancy versions of sports bar food?”
He grins, flipping straight to what I assume is the meat section. “Definitely actual food. Though I may have chosen this place specifically because they have a steak that’s been calling my name for weeks.”
“Very predictable,” I tease. “Let me guess—rare, loaded potato, side of masculinity?”
“Medium-rare, thank you. I’m not a caveman.” His laugh is warm, settling somewhere deep in my chest. “What about you? Let me guess... you’re going straight for the pasta because you’re a creature of habit.”
I narrow my eyes at him over the top of my menu. “How did you—” I look down and realize I’ve already gravitated toward the linguine with clam sauce. “Okay, as if that’s not the most obvious thing here.”
“Lucky guess,” he says sarcastically.
I shyly smile as I look at the menu.
I can feel him watching me with an amused expression that suggests he can handle my sense of humor. When he finally looks at his menu, I glance at him and find myself noticing details about him that I missed during our first dinner. His eyelashes are long, cheekbones are high, and he has good hair. He has quite a large Adam’s apple, and frankly, it’s hot. His lips are full but not too overwhelming. He has a boyish charm to him, a glint in his eye.
When the server comes to take our order, Cole asks thoughtful questions about preparation and ingredients, the kind of person who actually reads the menu instead of just picking something at random. It’s such a small thing, but it says something about the way he approaches decisions—carefully, with attention to detail.
“So,” he says once we’ve ordered and the server has disappeared with our menus, “tell me something I don’t know about you.”
“That’s a dangerously open-ended question.”
“I’m feeling brave tonight,” he quips with a patient look on his face.
I take a sip of the wine he suggested—something crisp and light that pairs perfectly with the warm lighting and his easy smile. “Okay, something random. I went to Italy last summer with my mom. We were supposed to do this whole cultural immersion thing, visit museums and historical sites, really soak up the Renaissance experience.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, we spent three days in Rome eating gelato and people-watching in piazzas because my mom decided art was overrated compared to watching Italian men argue about soccer.”
His eyes stay fixed on me the entire time I’m talking, not darting to his phone or the couple at the table next to us who are having what sounds like a very dramatic breakup conversation. It’s unnerving in the best possible way, the kind of attention that makes me hyperaware of every expression crossing my face.
“Sounds like my kind of vacation,” he says. “Did you at least see the Colosseum?”
“We walked by it. Does that count?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then no, we did not see the Colosseum. But I can tell you where to find the best cacio e pepe in Trastevere and exactly which piazza has the most entertaining lunch crowd.”
“Those seem like more useful skills than being able to identify Renaissance architecture.”
“That’s what I told my mom.”
There are pauses in our conversation, but it’s the comfortable kind that doesn’t need to be filled with chatter. During one of them, I take another sip of wine and catch him watching me again, like he’s studying the way I think between sentences.
“What?” I ask, setting down my glass.
He shakes his head slightly, lips curving into that small smile I’m starting to recognize. “Nothing. Just... you’re easy to talk to.”
It’s such a simple comment, but something about the way he says it—genuine, a little surprised—makes warmth spread through my chest. Like he wasn’t expecting this to be so effortless.
“So are you,” I say, and mean it. “Tell me about hockey. Not the games or the stats, but what it’s actually like. Behind the scenes.”
