Page 112 of Really Truly Yours

A grin flickers. “Don’t use that logic stuff on me, Sydnee Carson.” He holds up his wiggling finger. “You want this bad boy to go to waste?”

I smile into my water. Cocky at times, yes, but not fatally so.

He’s more than I thought on the day we met.

Lightyears more.

And he’s here with me. Something doesn’t add up.

Chapter 24

Sydnee

The night air is stuffy when we exit the restaurant. Distant lightning flashes to the west. The weather report I checked earlier in the day calls for a line of thunderstorms to usher dramatically cooler air in by midnight.

Gray slips his palm around my hand. A second later, he nets his fingers through mine. His warmth and strength stall my breath. Nervous energy pushes out the next words that pop to the surface. “Thank you for dinner. The food was so good.”

The corner of his mouth contains a grin. “You sound like the night is over.”

“Oh, well, I thought…”

“I think I can do better planning a date than a simple dinner.”

My heart thumps. “We’re going somewhere else?” Tonight is already dramatically beyond the bounds of my normal life.

“Oh, yeah, baby.”

The sidewalk is busy but not crazy full. Gray pulls me under an overhang and types an address into his maps app. He checks his watch. “Come on. Gotta hurry.”

We walk again at a quicker pace, our hands connected. “Where are we going?”

His grin is light and boyish. “You’ll see.”

Five minutes later, he holds the door of an older building. The lobby smells of age, is dark, and not overly large. People mill about, mingling and carrying drinks.

He leads us to a ticket window where he gives the woman his name and says he has will-call tickets to pick up. As they transact business, I read the sign behind her head. A comedy club?

I could use a good laugh.

The next thought nipping the heels of the first wonders if the show will be clean. Aside from my general principles, I’d probably about die sitting beside Gray and listening to crass humor.

We bypass the bar altogether, and he leads us to the auditorium. The theater is built with steep stadium seating. Our seats are halfway up, conveniently on an aisle.

The musty odor is even stronger here. The smell, along with the red velvet seats, harken charmingly to an earlier era.

A drop-down screen behind the stage invites audience members to participate. On a table by the door we entered are sticky notes. Each person should take two. On one, it instructs to write a famous person’s name and on the other, a single word. Any word. The idea is to write on the sticky side of the paper and then to place it, writing-side down, on a board near the door. Apparently, the comedy will be improvisational.

I think I’d rather watch instead of working myself into a frenzy wondering if my paper will be chosen. But Gray jogs to the front, thinks for a moment, then scratches out whatever he comes up with on a yellow square. On the way back to me, he grins from ear to ear.

His shoulder and elbow can’t help but crowd me once he’s seated.

I don’t mind.

Nor do I object to being entrapped by his woodsy fragrance. The aroma, as it has all night, engulfs me in a haze of attraction I couldn’t resist if I wanted to.

I do not want to. Not tonight. I want to enjoy the evening for what it is. Tomorrow can take care of itself.

Again, he laces our hands, his touch flowing warm sensations up my arm and fanning out.

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