Page 86 of At First Flight
“I mean it.” I reach for her hand. “Come on, before I forget where we’re going.”
We head down the stairs quietly, the house already still with the kids tucked in at her mom’s for the night. I unlock the car and open the door for her, watching the way her dress rides up a fraction when she climbs inside.
Focus. You’ve waited this long. Don’t blow it.
The restaurant sits nestled in an old brick hotel, all art-deco charm and faded grandeur. The kind of place locals whisper about when they say “fancy.” The lobby still boasts the original tiled floor and velvet-backed chairs that sag with time. But the dining room, soft lighting, white linen, the smell of roasted garlic and butter, feels like we’ve stepped into a different world.
She runs her fingers along the edge of the menu, biting her lip in thought. I can’t stop staring.
“What?” she asks, her brow lifting.
“You’re not even trying, are you?” I murmur.
“Trying what?”
“To be irresistible.”
A flush rises in her cheeks, and she ducks her head. “You’re going to make it impossible to concentrate on the food.”
I grin. “That’s kind of the plan.”
When the server returns, we both order seafood—because when the ocean’s practically at your feet, anything else feels like a crime. She picks the crab-stuffed flounder, her eyes lighting up at the words “garlic herb butter.” I go for the blackened grouper, mostly because I know it’ll come with those roasted potatoes in the same butter sauce she won’t be able to resist stealing off my plate.
“Careful,” I murmur, handing the server the menu once she’s made her choice. “Garlic butter has been known to drive men mad. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She smirks over the rim of her water glass. “Are you saying you’re easy, Dean Harrington?”
I lean in a little closer, resting my forearms on the table. “I’m saying I’m a man of simple tastes. Butter. Warm bread. A woman in a slinky dress who knows how to use her smile as a weapon.”
She flushes, but it’s the kind that makes her shoulders relax instead of tense. She rolls her eyes with a laugh and mutters something about “predictable men,” but her gaze lingers on my mouth for a beat longer than necessary. I catch it, file it away like a prize.
The food arrives, steaming and golden and unfairly mouthwatering. Lila lets out a low moan at the first bite of her flounder, and I nearly choke on my wine.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “You keep making noises like that and they’re going to ask us to take it to go.” She chuckles and unfortunately refrains from more of the audible enjoyment of her meal.
After dessert, something decadent with chocolate and espresso that Lila moans over like it’s a religious experience, I pay the bill and take her hand again.
“Where are we going?” she asks as we step back out into the warm night air.
“You’ll see.”
The town theater is showing a black-and-white movie from the ’50s. Romance. Laughter. Not a superhero in sight. Wesit in the back row, our shoulders brushing, her perfume clinging to my skin like temptation.
Halfway through the film, she turns to say something, and I kiss her.
It’s soft, gentle. Her lips part just slightly, and then we’re falling into something deeper. Something real.
She pulls back first, her eyes searching mine. “Dean.”
“I know.” I press my forehead to hers. “I know. I just needed to do that once.”
Her hand rests on my thigh for the rest of the film. No more words needed. The credits roll, slow and elegant across the screen, and Lila’s hand slips into mine without a word.
The theater hums with soft chatter and laughter as people shuffle toward the doors, but for a moment, we stay seated. Her thumb brushes over mine, and I glance sideways to find her already watching me.
There’s something in her eyes I can’t quite name. Not hesitation, not exactly. It’s softer than that. Maybe wonder. Or maybe that same ache I feel pressing against my ribs like it’s been there for years, just waiting for her.
“You hungry?” I ask as we step out onto the sidewalk. The night wraps around us, warm and still, the town glowing under strings of lights hung between lamp posts and storefronts.
