Page 61 of Ten Day Affair

Sam leans back, her fingers still loosely laced with mine. “Well. I guess that’s our cue.”

“Unless you’re still thirsty,” I say, catching her eye. “Nightcap on the deck?”

She arches a brow. “Yours or mine?”

The question lands with more weight than it should. We both feel it.

I smile slowly. “I was trying to be a gentleman.”

“Might be your first strike.”

That earns a quiet laugh from me as I signal the server. She starts to protest, but I shake my head and reach for my card.

“You can buy the next one.”

She watches me sign the check. “We’ll see about that.”

We stand, the air outside denser now, the kind that clings to your skin and makes everything feel a little slower. A little bolder.

"Is your car here?"

"No, I walked. Needed some fresh air after being in the hospital all day. It's only a ten-minute walk."

"I walked, too."

"Perfect. You can keep me safe from the crime-ridden streets of Palm Beach."

"Gladly."

Sam kicks off her heels, dangling them from two fingers as we walk along the boulevard. Something about her barefoot on the warm pavement strikes me as beautifully unguarded.

"That Sancerre was perfect," she says, bumping my shoulder with hers. "Though I didn't peg you for such a wine snob."

"Says the woman who sent back her espresso at Seaside because it wasn't 'extracted properly.'"

"That's different. That's scientific precision. Proper extraction requires—" Her laugh echoes against the storefronts.

"Twenty-seven seconds at nine bars of pressure, water between 195 and 205 degrees. You lectured the poor barista for five minutes." I tick off each point on my fingers.

Her mouth drops open in mock outrage. "I did not lecture! I educated."

"You have the business card of your favorite barista in your phone contacts."

"You went through my phone?"

"You left it on the table when you went to the restroom. Your screen lit up with a text from 'Marcus - Perfect Pull Espresso.'"

Sam laughs again, and the sound does something to my chest. Something unfamiliar and warm.

"Fine. I'm an espresso snob. You're a wine snob. Match made in pretentious heaven."

We reach our houses, and we both pause, trying to gauge where to go from here. I think we've established that we both don’t want to end the night here.

"I've got more high-end wine. My place?"

"Sounds like a plan."

She follows me in and tosses her shoes on the floor beside my kitchen island.