“Nice view,” I say.
“You already said that,” he replies as he glances over his shoulder.
“I wasn’t talking about the ocean.”
A gleam in his eyes makes me glad for the boldness of a glass of wine and my own relief at finally having his undivided attention. Maybe I’m being too forward. Perhaps this is far less than I think it is, and I’m making it into more.
I don’t care.
Guys like Andrew McCormick don’t exist in my world. Not as dating partners. Men like Ron and Jordan are what’s out there in my life partner pool, and not only is there no comparison—zero—the fact is that none of that matters.
I spent the last two years waiting for Andrew to make a move I’d given up on ever experiencing. And now here he is, holding my hand and pouring me wine on a private rooftop garden at one of the most exclusive, elite restaurants in the country and I’ll be damned if I let this slip out of my hands.
“What are we doing?” he asks, echoing my earlier question.
“You tell me.” Please, tell me, Andrew.
“We’re getting to know each other.”
“We’ve known each other for nearly two years.” Two long years.
“I know quite a bit about you,” he says with an alluring grin.
“Oh yeah? Like what?”
“Shannon spilled all your secrets.”
I snort inelegantly. Is there an elegant way to snort, though?
“Right. Not falling for that, bud. Shannon would never, ever spill my secrets. Besides, I don’t have any.”
“Everyone has secrets.”
“Not me. I’m an open book.”
He gives me a skeptical look and asks, “What’s your greatest fear?”
That this isn’t real.
I can’t tell him that, so instead I tell him my second greatest fear.
“Being naked in public.”
His grin widens. “Has this been an issue for you in the past?”
“Only in my nightmares.”
“Or my dreams.”
Did the temperature just rise by ten degrees out here?
A small beet salad with goat cheese and fennel is served, interrupting us and giving me a chance to catch my breath.
“But seriously,” I say between bites.
“I was being serious.”
“You have dreams about my being naked in public?”
“All the time. Except for the public part.”
“You could have said something sooner.”
“I’m saying it now.”
What else can I do but laugh and pivot?
“What’s your greatest fear?”
His face goes somber so quickly that I realize my very awful misstep immediately.
“I’m sorry,” I rasp. “I know what it is, and I shouldn’t have asked that.”
He flinches. “You know my greatest fear? How could you know?”
“It’s wasps, right?”
Of course it is. Between Shannon’s allergy and the story about how Andrew, Declan and Terry’s mom died, and Declan’s impossible choice, how could I not know? Andrew is deathly allergic to wasp stings. Shannon is deathly allergic to bee stings. It’s a weird confluence of events that found Shannon and Declan together, and if I weren’t her best friend I would think it was nuts.
But love doesn’t care about crazy. It’s random that way.
Andrew’s head is dipped down, just enough that the strings of lights above us make shadows that cover his face. His hand holding the salad fork is suspended above his plate, arm bent at the elbow, a light breeze blowing the cloth of his shirt to the side. He’s blinking furiously and breathing with great care, as if gentling himself.
And then he says, “Yes. That’s right.”
Except it feels like he’s lying by omission.
A million questions pour into my head as I struggle to correct my misstep. I feel so foolish. So sickeningly stupid. Here I go again, ruining what has, so far, been the best night of my life.
I need to fix this.
I need to fix this now.
“What’s your favorite food?” The words come out of me just as the server clears the plates and a woman in a chef’s uniform appears from the shadows. She’s tall and lean, elegant in a way that only a European woman can be, with a self-possession that makes me feel like I’m twelve.
“Señor McCormick, so good to see you,” she says with a light Spanish accent. Her cheekbones are high and her face long, eyes deeply sunken with a well-painted face and the bone structure of a woman who knows herself all too well. Her hair is streaked with lines of grey that American women in their fifties would dye but she sports proudly.
Andrew stands and kisses her on both cheeks, his movements elegant and possessed. He’s so young. Just twenty-nine, and yet here he is, kissing a woman I’ve seen on television for more than ten years and who chats with him—in Spanish—as if they’re old friends.
He switches to English. “May I introduce Amanda Warrick? Amanda, meet—”
“I know who you are,” I gush. I’ve never met a celebrity chef before. Consuela Arroyo is surprisingly pleasant, her face breaking into a warm grin as she reaches for me. Her cool, dry hands reach up to cup my cheeks and plant one kiss on each side. I flail, not quite knowing how to greet her back, and roll my jaw bone against hers, wincing as my shiner scrapes against her cheekbone. This double-cheek-kiss thing makes me feel like an awkward teen at my first school dance.
“Amanda, it is so nice to meet you. I hope you enjoy cilantro,” she says in a voice that carries some kind of subtext with Andrew.