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“I’ll think about it,” I allow.
The waiter returns to take our orders, and then our entrées are delivered in record time.
“This doesn’t look as good as yours,” Kit comments, picking up the knife and cutting into his chicken.
He’s lying—when I made chicken this past week, it turned out dry and bland—but he says it with such conviction that Ialmostbelieve him.
My response? “I love you.”
The words slip out easily, naturally, like I’ve said them to him a hundred times before. But I haven’t. In my head, I’ve said them a lot. Counting a few seconds ago, I’ve said them aloud exactly … once.
And Ididsay them aloud.
Kit’s blue eyes are wide and surprised as he looks up from his plate.
Did I freak him out? I think I freaked him out. Technically, this is our first date. First date to four-letter word is a big leap.
Even embarrassed, I don’t regret saying it. I want him to know howI feel, even if he’s not there yet. Even if he never gets there.
I pick up my fork, attempting nonchalance. Pretending Ihavesaid those three words to him a hundred times before. “My chicken was dry. I saw a recipe for chicken parmesan that I was thinking I’d try to make next week. The tomato sauce should help with the consistency. Do you know if there’s a meat mallet anywhere in your gigantic kitchen? Because I tried looking for one and I?—”
“Collins.”
“I’ll just buy one,” I decide.
“Collins.”
I reach for my water. “You don’t have to say anything. We can talk about?—”
“I’ve been in love with you ever since I saw you, Collins Tate.” He pauses, letting that sentence sink in. “Maybe it started as a crush, but it was never a game to me. I was a goner from the start. You thought arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich or bringing up Monaco was going to deter me?” He grins. “I just fell harder. I was trying to give you some time to catch up to where I’ve been for a while.”
Tears fill my eyes, making my vision blur. “I’m really hormonal,” I whisper.
“Damn it.” He reaches across the candles to brush his thumb against my cheek. “I was hoping it might have been because of my romantic streak.”
“You factored.”
Kit laughs under his breath, brushing my cheek once more before withdrawing his hand.
He doesn’t say it again, and neither do I. But it lingers as an invisible, shimmering awareness through the rest of dinner.
“A bar?” I ask dubiously.
After dinner, Kit drove us to a bar. And it’s not even anicebar, like the one I was supposed to meet Perry at months ago. It’s a dive, with a flickering neon light and a boarded window and no line for entry. The kind of place I’d go for cheap beer in college.
“You’ll see.” He tugs me toward the entrance by our joined hands.
Reluctantly, I follow.
The interior is about what I expected. Vintage sports memorabilia decorate the walls. The bartender is a grizzled older man with a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. And my heels stick to the floor with each step, like the wooden boards haven’t been washed in this century.
The size of the crowd inside is the only surprise. The booths and the stools lining the bar are all full.
I stare at Kit until he looks at me. He smirks at my confused expression, pulling me deeper into the bar.
“… on? Is this on? Oh great, it’s working.”
I track the sound to the raised stage that sits at the very back of the bar.Stageis a generous term for the platform raised a few inches higher than the rest of the floor, but the microphone, chair, and piano add to the effect. A middle-aged man is standing at the microphone, fiddling with the wire wrapped around the stand.