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I nearly melt into the table, listening to him. Listening to him tell me all the ways he’s been listening to me. I focus on his face, the stern look in those eyes. He isn’t even really dating me, and he’s been paying more attention than any man who ever has.

“I have a list in the notes app on my phone of your preferences. Your favourite breakfast food, your favourite places for takeout, the movies that you choose to watch, your favourite bottles of red that you’ve tried.

” He’s still talking, and my heart is dripping into a big, messy puddle.

“It’s not hard to care, Red. It should be easy.

It takes three seconds to jot down that you would prefer a bottle of Caymus any day of the week, but you buy whatever is on sale most of the time because you don’t want to spend the money unless it’s a special occasion. ”

Okay, my heart has now completely liquified and settled between my legs.

I lean into the heel of my hand, a gentle smile touching my lips.

I watch him watch me, because this man is a real man.

He’s kind. He’s considerate. He may have a temper that gets him into trouble, but his heart makes up for that in strides.

I cannot believe someone so undoubtedly wonderful has not found ‘the one’ yet.

But maybe it’s for the best. If he had, I wouldn’t be spending time with him, and honestly—I’m beginning to wonder if there is a human alive that’s good enough for Carter Forkerro.

“I know this is an arrangement on paper,” he finishes, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

The eye contact with us has always been my favourite.

We lose minutes running with the stolen looks and deep pulls of this connection.

“But real or not, I will take care of you, Red. And it will be my absolute fucking pleasure to do so.”

I nuzzle into my hand a bit more, desperately trying to stop my cheeks from flushing pink.

All the right things. He says all the right things, most of the time.

He’s slowly etching himself into my being, and I’m not sure if that’s a good thing.

He makes me excited to live again, and though I pretend not to notice, I’m aware that three nights a week is slowly trickling into more.

By choice.

And I’m scared.

I’m scared because there is an end date, and I am not even remotely ready to stop looking at this face every day.

I’m not prepared to shake his hand, terminate this agreement, and suddenly find my phone empty of his text messages, or my nights empty of that smile.

It has nothing to do with the medical bills or the adoption fees being paid at the shelter. It has everything to do with him.

I’m scared because I know what this means, and it can’t mean what it means.

Because this isn’t real.

I’m about to open my mouth and say something that will never compare to the words he just offered to me, but the waitress returns with our first sampling of four wines.

She starts into her explanation, but then cuts herself off, zips her lips with her fingers, and hands us these laminated pieces of paper that explain each wine, their notes, and what they pair well with.

“I asked them to let us do this part on our own,” Carter tells me as she heads back to the bar. He picks up the first glass and sniffs. “We don’t need help. We’ve got the wine expert herself in this booth. ”

I smile, rolling my eyes and snatching the piece of paper from him.

“Alright, this is an import from Italy. It’s a Cabernet Sauvignon, so it’s going to be the best. It’s full-bodied, with a black cherry flavour palette and notes of spice.

It should have an aroma of vanilla and clove, and it pairs well with steak, lamb, and cheese. ”

Carter is staring at the liquid in his glass with a skeptical expression. “What a special glass of juice.”

A laugh spills out of me. “So you want to roll the liquid in the glass a bit, and take a deep inhale. That’s where you’ll pick up on the vanilla and clove.”

I bring my glass in front of me and he watches, and then mimics my actions. I take a deep breath of it, and can instantly tell that this is the good, expensive stuff. This isn’t my ten-dollar bottle from the liquor store.

Carter sniffs it and shoots me a look. “It smells like woody vinegar.”

I bite back a smile, moving on to explain the next step. We do the tasting before the actual drinking of it, and while I am thoroughly enjoying the experience, I can tell that Carter would rather just slam these back and give his opinions on them.

“I’ll rate that one a nine,” I say, jotting it down on my paper. “I like the spice in it.”

“I’ll rate it a ten,” he says, scribbling down his number and dropping his pencil. He grabs his glass, chugging the rest of it. “Because if you like it, I like it. But between us, it just tastes like red wine and it makes my cheeks feel disgusting.”

We go through them one by one, eat the food that is given to us, and sketch down our scores.

By the end of it, it all tastes the same, and my head is more fuzzy than anticipated.

This really was the wine tasting of all wine tastings.

We had twelve glasses to sample. With one look across the table and one glance at Carter’s straight scores of tens on his sheet, I know he’s as drunk as I am.

When he fishes his phone out of his pocket to get a rideshare back to the city, I pick at the rest of the fries on the table.

“Still want to sleep over?” he asks.

I dip my fry in ketchup, meeting his eyes and wondering if it’s a bad idea. The sleepover part has been tried and tested, and there was no funny business to be had. But we’ve both always been sober.

I don’t even let my head wander, I just say what I want. I want this night to continue. With him.

I shrug, giving him a nod of approval.

He goes back to his phone and orders the ride, dropping it onto the table when he’s done. “So, out of ten, how was this date?”

My eyes are a bit heavy as I smile over at him. “You want me to rate it?”

“Still the best date you’ve ever been on?”

“By a mile,” I tell him, snatching another fry. “Tens across the board. Thank you, boyfriend.”

He studies my face, and there is that gentle type of smile that only hits his mouth every so often. “You’re very welcome, girlfriend. I meant what I said, alright?”

He reaches across the table and takes my free hand. The one without the fries in it.

“I’ll take care of you, okay?” he says, his thumb brushing my hand. “So, stop worrying about everything for a bit. Try to stop stressing out about the big things. I’ve got you now.”

I swallow my fry, but it doesn’t go down as easily as the last. I glance at our hands, then back up at those stupidly blue eyes. The thought runs through my head for the tenth time this week. I feel safe with him. So damn safe.

“I know I have much less to offer you,” I say quietly, turning my hand in his. I give it a little squeeze. “But I’ve got you too.”