Page 9 of The Pen Pal
I look around the rooftop restaurant and hope to God it impresses her. I badly need to impress her.
From the strings of low-hanging bulbs to the skyline stretching out in every direction, it’s cozy and romantic. Amelia’s seat is still empty, which is to be expected. I’m at least half an hour early.
Like I said, terribly excited.
I pull my jacket closed even though the breeze is warm, and press my palms flat on the tablecloth.
Don’t sweat. Don’t fidget. Be cool. Act cool. Stay cool.
But I’m not cool. I’m wired.
“Adam?”
I spin so fast in my seat that the chair jerks beneath me, skidding a few inches, and I nearly lose balance.
Smooth. Really smooth. Great first impression. She’d definitely find it sexy.
I stand to my full height, pretending I didn’t just almost fall gracelessly on our first date. The moment I lay eyes on her, though, words elude me. I can’t even remember my fucking name.
Amelia stands a few feet from the table. Her hair is longer than I imagined—inky black waves spilling over her shoulders, and her hazel eyes are, my God, the most striking I’ve ever seen.
She smiles shyly at me, and I still can’t form coherent words because she has the sexiest crimson red dress on. It hugs her figure perfectly, and even all the way from here, I can trace her curves and dips with my gaze.
“I really hope you’re Adam because if you’re not, then this is hella awkward,” she says, smiling and showing a dimple in her right cheek.
Fuck.
I finally shake myself out of it and tamp down the lust rising to the surface. This is not the time and place. Later, hopefully.
I smile and extend a hand to her. “Adam Reeves. Although if I were someone else, I still might have reacted the same way.”
Amelia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks as red as a tomato, and accepts my hand. “Amelia Moore.”
The moment we touch, it’s like someone lit a fuse in my chest. I feel the sparks to my toes and, goddammit, my cock. Good thing everyone else is busy with their business, so I stand there, holding her soft, small hand, and yet my body acts like this is foreplay—a long, drawn-out foreplay.
And because I like torturing myself, I lift her hand to my lips and plant a soft kiss. The small gasp from Amelia is enough to make beads of precome drip from my cock, and I wonder exactly how loud she can be.
“A gentleman, I see,” she says, stepping closer until we’re just an inch apart. Her forehead reaches only my chin, so I have to tilt my head down to meet her gaze. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and that breaks my nervousness and awkwardness. This is my Amelia, the one who’s haunted my inbox, my life, and my body.
What is there to be shy about? She already knows all my desires.
“A gentleman on the streets, but fucking filthy in the sheets.” I smile as I brush my lips against the back of her hand again.
Amelia sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. “Let me be the judge of that.”
Remembering my manners, I lead her to her seat, indulging myself in her sweet, tempting scent. A scent I hope she’ll leave on my pillowcases tonight.
I hand her a mason jar of hydrangeas, which earns me a soft laugh.
“Oh my God, you remember!” She takes the jar from me, smells it, and sighs. “Thank you.”
“I remember everything from that list, Amelia.” My confidence is back, thank goodness. “Why else do you think I invited you here?” I smile and tip my chin to the sky.
Amelia lifts her face and watches in amazement at the blanket of stars. I did my research on constellations, too, so in case she asks, I’m fully ready to share what I learned. What can I say? I like being prepared.
But she doesn’t say anything for the first few minutes.
“You okay?”
