Page 43 of Fall I Want
“I can’t write anymore,” I say.
I wait for him to push, to ask me more questions, but he doesn’t.
“What about you?”
He grins. “I guess you could say I’m in hospitality and tourism. But I’m not in Cozy Hollow for that. My time here is a vacation, not business related at all,” he admits, reaching for the door of Bookers and holding it open for me. Alex follows behind me with his fingers softly pressed against my back, staying close. The lights are lowered after the sun sets and the room glows golden.
I slide into one of my favorite booths away from the crowd, giving us some privacy so we can speak freely without being overheard. Alex sits in front of me and the leather-bound menus are passed to us. “May I grab you a whiskey or a margarita?”
It’s busy tonight, but nothing out of the normal for this time of the year.
Alex glances at me, allowing me to order first.
“I’d like to start with a water,” I say, glancing down at the menu full of autumn-inspired brews.
“I’ll do the same,” Alex says.
The server walks away and I twist the menu around so he can see what they have on tap.
“Pumpkin beer?” he asks with a brow popped.
“It’s an Oktoberfest thing one microbrewery outside of town makes each year. It’s actually great. One of my favorites.”
He watches me with his fingers interlocked. I hold back a smile, focusing back on the list of drinks. I don’t mind being the center of his attention, but it makes me nervous.
“You’re intense,” I say, not looking at him.
“I’ve been told that before,” he states.
The server sets our drinks down. “Want a few minutes?”
I nod, meeting his gaze, and she leaves us.
“Thanks again for the phone.”
“So you’re keeping it?” One of his brows arches.
“Huh?” There is no way he knows about the conversation I had with Julie and Blaire earlier. “How’d you kn—”
He smirks, glancing at the appetizer list. “I can easily read you.”
I mutter, “I’m usually not that easy to figure out.”
“That’s tragic for you, then. Guess those games you like to play won’t work on me.” He flips the page like he’s reading a magazine.
“Excuse me?”
He meets my eyes. “I feel like I know you. I can look at you and know exactly what you’re thinking. And I shouldn’t.”
“No, you can’t,” I say, but I wonder if he can.
He closes the menu. “You feel the invisible tug. I know you do. It’s written on your face.”
My throat goes dry. I nervously grab at my water and clumsily knock it over. I stand, somehow avoiding getting wet, and Alex grabs the stack of napkins, using them to stop it from leaking over on his side.
“You can sit right here.” He pats beside him.
I look around for someone to help with this mess before embarrassment takes over, but the restaurant is busy.
