Page 20 of Across the Boards

“That good, huh?” His voice is slightly rougher than before.

“Try for yourself,” I offer, surprising myself. I extend my fork with a small bite of tiramisu.

He leans forward, maintaining eye contact as he accepts the bite from my fork. It’s such an intimate gesture that I feel heat rising to my cheeks.

“Delicious,” he says after a moment, still holding my gaze. “But I think it’s the company that makes it special.”

“Smooth,” I murmur, trying to ignore the beat of my pulse.

“Just honest,” he counters, offering me a bite of his chocolate cake in return.

I hesitate only briefly before leaning forward to accept it. The rich, warm chocolate melts on my tongue, decadent and intense.

“Verdict?” he asks, watching me carefully.

“Not bad,” I say with deliberate casualness. “But I still prefer the tiramisu.”

“Noted for future reference.” He grins. “I’ll remember that the next time we have dessert together.”

“Presumptuous of you to assume there will be a next time,” I say, though without any real objection in my tone.

“Hopeful,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

We finish our desserts in companionable conversation, discussing everything from favorite childhood books to travel disasters to the merits of different coffee brewing methods. It’s surprisingly easy, talking to Brody. He listens attentively, asks thoughtful questions, and doesn’t dominate the conversation the way Jason always did.

By the time we leave Marcel’s, I’ve almost forgotten that this was supposed to be a dinner with friends, not a date. Almost.

The night air is cool and pleasant as we walk to his car. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around myself, warding off the slight chill.

“Here,” Brody says, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it gently around my shoulders before I can protest.

“Thanks,” I murmur, oddly touched by the gesture. The jacket is warm from his body and smells faintly of his cologne—something woodsy and soft.

The drive back to our townhomes is quiet but not uncomfortable. Brody plays soft jazz on the car stereo, occasionally pointing out changes to the neighborhood since he was last in Phoenix.

“That used to be the best taco truck in the city,” he says, gesturing to a new apartment complex. “The owner made these incredible fish tacos with mango salsa. I wonder if he relocated.”

“He did. Corner of 7th and Osborn.”

He turns to me with a delighted expression. “Seriously? Manuel’s still in business?”

“Very much so. Still makes the same mango salsa, too.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” he declares. “Well, second best.”

“What was the first?”

His eyes find mine briefly before returning to the road. “Finding out you remembered our conversation from that Christmas party.”

I don’t know how to respond to that so I look out the window, watching the city lights blur past. But I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips.

When we reach our townhomes, Brody insists on walking me to my door. It’s unnecessary—we’re literally next door to each other—but I find I don’t mind.

“Well,” I say as we reach my front door, “That was...”

“If you say ‘nice,’ I’m going to be very disappointed,” he warns.

“I was going to say ‘surprisingly not terrible.’”

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