Page 22 of Forever Writing You

“That’s sarcasm, right?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You spent most of your life working on it with her.”

“Not by choice.”

“Well, Spencer never lasted more than an hour before he came up with a convenient excuse to do something else,” he said, “and your sister cried every time she saw a beetle.”

“Or an earthworm.” I smiled at the memory. “She honestly thought we were washing bugs off the plants instead of watering them. She probably still thinks that.”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “You may have never bothered to learn all the intricacies behind the plant names, but if you think about it, you know how to harvest arrangements, deadhead, and prune with the best of them.”

“I can’t believe you know those terms.”

“You taught them to me.”

Silence.

Chef Lumen approached our table and set down our plates with a bottle of top-shelf wine. Then he lifted my left hand to his lips for a kiss before disappearing.

“The last time I sat down with you for dinner was the day you left me.” Everett picked up a fork.“I haven’t held a late-night meeting in a restaurant ever since.”

“Please don’t ruin dinner.” I glared at him. “You promised we wouldn’t talk about this.”

“It slipped.”

“In that case, allow me to slip.” I refused to believe that it was an accident. “I remember the days when I told you that I never wanted to see you get hurt, and you believed me. Funny how an engagement to someone you haven’t known that long changes things…”

Silence.

“Fair enough.” He pointed to my plate. “Since when do you eat avocados?”

“I don’t. I got them for you when you ordered the special and didn’t ask for some on top.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t believe they still won’t give them to you on the side here,” I said. “Chef Lumen refuses to make adjustments to his menu for anyone.”

“Except our moms.” “Well, except other mothers,” we spoke in unison again.

We split the wine and ate the rest of our dinner in silence.

* * *

With exactly eight minutes left in our agreed hour, Everett held me against his chest as we walked into my apartment.

“I think four might be my limit when it comes to alcohol.” I stuttered.

“I’m pretty sure it’s still two.” He sighed and hit the lights. “Where’s your bedroom, Dahlia?”

“I’m not letting you see it.” I slurred. “Put me there. On the couch.”

“It’s covered in bouquet wrapping paper.”

“I’ll sleep on top of it.”

“Okay.” He released his arm from my waist, lifted me over his shoulder, and carried me down the hall.

“The couch.” I whined as he moved from door to door. “Just turn around and put me on the couch…”

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