Page 56 of If My Wishes Came True
“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” I say, relieved that I don’t have to.
He laughs again. “Well, my dad is English on his father’s side, and Moroccan on his mom’s. I know you’ve noticed Sutton’s tea selection, but have you ever tried our tagine?”
My eyes go wide. “Charlie, are you kidding? I love it! I have at least four boxes in my freezer at all times.”
“That’s my grandmother’s recipe,” he says with a wistful smile. “She lived with us for several years when I was young, before she passed away. And she taught me how to cook. So I can make you the real thing sometime, from scratch.”
“I would love that,” I say, adding cooking to my mental list of Charlie’s perfect qualities.
“Great,” he replies with an easy grin. “So, that’s my dad’s side of the family. And on my mom’s side, I’m a quarter Black and a quarter Danish.”
As we approach Michigan Avenue, busy with tourists and shoppers, I grab his arm to turn him toward me. “Charlie, you will never, ever guess what I’m about to tell you,” I deadpan.
“You’re Danish, too,” he says with a knowing smile.
“Dammit,” I joke. “Was it the blonde hair that tipped you off, or the name Andersen?”
“Any relation to Hans Christian?” he quips back as we cross the street.
I giggle. “No. But, when I was in grade school, I used to tellkids he was my uncle.”
Charlie throws his head back, laughing. “A nineteenth-century author of fairy tales? You didn’t.”
I nod. “I thought it would win them over.”
Now his smile fades. “Why did you need to win them over?”
“I was diagnosed with dyslexia in second grade. And, you know how kids can be. I got teased,” I say matter-of-factly.
Charlie frowns and takes my hand as we continue to stroll. “I’m sorry you went through that.”
“I’m okay now,” I say.
And it’s true. Maybe it’s the comfort level I feel with Charlie, or the confidence I’m gaining from my therapy sessions with Esther—or both—but my cheeks don’t flush when I talk about my dyslexia this time.
As we wait to cross the street again, Charlie plants a kiss on the top of my head. “How do you feel about the Pancake House? I’ve never been.”
I smile. “It’s my favorite place for breakfast.”
“Well, then we’re definitely going.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re seated on their patio with chilled glasses of orange juice, giant mugs of coffee, and Swedish pancakes so thin and buttery, they melt in your mouth.
“These are incredible,” Charlie says, spooning a heap of lingonberry jam onto his plate.
“Is your sweet tooth satisfied?” I ask as I watch him savor a bite.
He nods, grinning. “For now. It’ll probably reactivate around dinnertime.” After a sip of coffee, his gaze turns pensive. “Maybe this is too much too soon—we did spend most of theday together yesterday—but I’d love to make you that tagine tonight. I don’t know if you’re free, or?—”
“Yes,” I reply right away.
Relief washes over his face. “You sure? You’re not getting tired of me?”
“Charlie…I don’t even think that’s possible.”
He reaches across the table for my hand, his thumb moving in slow circles over my skin, which sends shivers up my spine. The littlest touch from him makes me feel so alive.
“I can’t believe this is only our fourth date,” he says, his gaze landing on mine. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”
