Page 82 of Across the Boards

“Hi,” I manage, extending the flowers like a peace offering. “These are for you.”

“Thank you.” She accepts them with a small smile. “They’re beautiful. Let me put them in water before we go.”

I follow her inside, watching as she fills a vase and arranges the flowers. There’s something mesmerizing about the simple domesticity of it—this brilliant, beautiful woman handling flowers I brought her.

“So,” she says, turning back to me. “Where are we going for this traditional date?”

“That’s a surprise,” I reply mysteriously. “But I can tell you it’s not a sports bar or a hockey-themed restaurant.”

“Setting the bar high, I see.”

“Only the best for our official first date.” I offer my arm. “Your chariot awaits.”

“A chariot?” She raises an eyebrow as she locks her door. “Ambitious transportation choice.”

“Well, it’s an SUV, but it has seat warmers, which I think technically qualifies as a chariot in some cultures.”

She laughs, the sound making my chest warm. “The ancient Romans were big on lumbar support.”

“Exactly. Julius Caesar was very particular about his seat settings.”

We reach my car, and I open the passenger door for her with a slight bow. She rolls her eyes but seems pleased by the gesture, settling into the seat with a smoothing of her dress.

“You look beautiful, by the way,” I say once I’m behind the wheel. “I meant to say that immediately, but my brain short-circuited.”

“Thank you.” Is she blushing slightly, or is it just the fading evening light? “You clean up pretty well yourself. Very un-hockey player-like.”

I glance down at my dark jeans and navy button-down. “Is that a compliment or an insult to my profession?”

“Let’s call it an observation.”

As we drive through Phoenix, I find myself sneaking glances at her profile—the elegant line of her neck, the slight furrow in her brow as she watches the unfamiliar route.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going now?” she asks after we pass downtown.

“Patience, Waltman.” I take a turn onto a tree-lined street. “We’re almost there.”

“You know, for someone who claims to want a traditional date, kidnapping is a bold choice.”

“If I were kidnapping you, I wouldn’t have brought flowers first. That’s just inefficient villain behavior.”

She snorts. “At least you’re a considerate abductor.”

We pull up to our destination—a converted warehouse with soft lighting spilling from industrial windows and a discreet sign reading “Vesuvio.”

“A restaurant?” she guesses.

“Not just any restaurant.” I park and come around to open her door. “This is Phoenix’s best-kept culinary secret. Chef-owned, farm-to-table, and absolutely no televisions showing sports.”

“My three criteria for the perfect dining establishment,” she says dryly, accepting my hand as she exits the car.

Inside, the space is warm and inviting—exposed brick walls, wooden tables, and Edison bulbs creating a cozy glow. The host greets me by name, leading us to a corner table partly secluded by a reclaimed wooden partition.

“You’ve been here before,” Elliot observes once we’re seated.

“A few times. The chef is an old friend from culinary classes I took during off-seasons.” I unfold my napkin. “He promised me the best table in the house when I told him how important tonight was.”

“Important, huh?” She studies me over the top of her menu. “No pressure or anything.”

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