Page 18 of Stalked By the Farmer

The doorbell rings again, insistent, demanding.

I take a deep breath and walk toward the door on unsteady legs. When I open it, Michael's smile is like the sun breaking through the clouds, warm and bright.

"You look stunning," he says, eyes gleaming with admiration.

I force a smile and step outside, the door closing behind me with a note of finality. I've made my choice. Now I have to live with the consequences.

"Shall we?" Michael asks, offering his arm.

I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow, skin tingling at his touch. "Lead the way."

Though my heart isn't in it, I'm committed now. I'll make the best of this date, even if I can't stop thinking of someone else. At least for tonight, I'll pretend I'm happy. Maybe in time, it could even become truth.

Maybe.

* * *

Michael guides me to his sleek black sports car, opening the passenger door for me with a gallant flourish. I slide into the leather seat, assaulted by the mingled scents of new car and Michael's cologne.

I can't help but compare it to Conner's beat-up old truck. It might be fancier, but I miss Conner's pickup.

He circles around and gets in beside me, glancing over with a smile. "I hope you like Italian food. I made reservations at Venezia's—they have the best lasagna and tiramisu."

"Sounds perfect," I say, hoping enthusiasm permeates my tone. In truth, I don't care where we go or what we eat. My mind is still back on my best friend's farm.

The drive to the restaurant passes in a blur. I make small talk on autopilot, laughing when Michael does and asking questions at what seem to be the appropriate times. But I'm not really present. I'm lost in the memory of Conner's eyes, dark and fathomless, gazing into mine. The touch of his hand, rough and calloused, clasping my own. The softness of his lips, brushing over my cheek in a feather-light kiss.

We arrive at the restaurant all too soon. As Michael comes around to open my door, I take a deep breath and summon a smile. I can do this. I can move on, start fresh, and forget about Conner.

Maybe.

"Shall we?" Michael asks, offering his arm again.

I place my hand on his elbow, stepping forward into the unknown.

The door opens, the scent of garlic and herbs washing over me.

The restaurant is dimly lit, with intimate booths lining the walls and tables clustered close together in the center of the room. Michael leads us to a small table in the corner, pulling out my chair before taking a seat across from me.

"This place has the best pasta in town," he says, handing me a menu. "Everything is made fresh daily."

I nod, only half listening as I scan the options. In the end, I choose a basic tomato basil pasta, hoping the familiarity will calm my rattled nerves.

Michael orders lasagna and a bottle of red wine for the table. Again, I think of the difference between him and Conner. This is nice, but I'd much prefer a casual diner and beer with Conner.

Once the waiter leaves, an awkward silence falls between us. I fiddle with the stem of my water glass, searching for something to say. In the absence of conversation, my wayward thoughts begin to drift again.

What is Conner doing right now? Is he thinking of me, as I am of him?

"Everything okay?" Michael's concerned voice startles me from my reverie. I blink at him, heat flooding my cheeks as I realize I zoned out completely.

"Yes, sorry," I say hurriedly. "Just distracted."

He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his own. The gesture is meant to be comforting, but I stiffen at his touch.

This was a mistake.

CHAPTERELEVEN

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