"One of my favorite restaurants in the city, I go with my family all of the time. It's an Asian fusion restaurant in Columbus Circle, gorgeous views of the park."
It takes me a second to realize he's talking about Central Park, and my anxiety creeps back in—any restaurant with great views of that park is a restaurant that is far out of my price range. But—I sigh—Cinderella. That's going to be my mantra for the evening, because, well, if the prince fits… I peek to the side, taking in Patrick's strong profile, and oh, he fits all right.
Now, what to say, what to say… I want to be charming and cute, maybe with a splash of sexy and a hint of mystery. That's easy enough, right? But I think and think, and lick my lips, and nervously smile in his direction, and after a few seconds I'm still drawing a complete blank. My mind is utterly empty. My tongue starts to feel fat and useless. An awkward chill creeps across my skin. This is so the opposite of the effect I was going for.
"So." Patrick finally breaks the silence. "When did you start working for the newspaper with Blythe?"
"Well, I started with an internship for the editors of the book review—"
"Ah, a smart girl," he interrupts, which normally bugs the crap out of me, but I can't help but smile at the admiration in his tone.
"I guess," I admit a little shyly, not really used to bragging about that sort of thing. "But a few weeks ago right around the middle of August, a position opened up in the lifestyle section and they wanted me."
"To be the…" He pauses. "Dating columnist?"
My face goes a little pink. Thank god he didn’t say sex columnist—we'd have a full-on tomato situation here. "Sort of. I do most of the normal assistant stuff too, but I also have a weekly column talking about the average sort of dating life for, you know, recent grads and girls in their twenties. That sort of thing."
"So," he leads and then turns to me, warm eyes narrowing, corners of his lips picking up just a little bit. "Will I be in this column?"
Okay—tomato situation might be happening after all. I look away, suddenly smoldering in the tiny space of the car. "Maybe…"
"Maybe?" he challenges.
I feed off the humor in his tone, using it to push my nerves away. "Yeah, that's right, maybe. I mean, we only just started the date, I need to wait and see if it's newsworthy."
He nods, pursing his lips, pretending to be very serious. I squeeze mine together to keep from laughing—I don't want to ruin the game! "So what would one need to do to be newsworthy? I've already got the fancy ride."
"And the rose," I add.
"Right, and the rose."
"No chocolates though," I gently accuse, frowning.
Patrick shakes his head, face full of remorse. "I'm clearly off my game tonight."
"Clearly," I concede. And though he's trying really hard to remain stone-faced, I hear a sharp exhale of air, the barest hint of humor escaping, and grin. "Don't worry, you could make up for it. Tell me something strange about yourself, something that would make my readers remember you."
"Hmm." He furrows his brows, thinking. "I slept with my baby blanket until I was twelve."
My heart melts picturing him as a little boy—for some reason I imagine a soft blue blanket with teddy bears on it. Ooh and maybe spaceships. Adorable! But this is too fun to let him know that. "Or how about something bad? Break any laws recently?"
"I did!" he says really animatedly.
I lean in, truthfully intrigued. "You did? What?"
He leans in too—this is top-secret information after all—whispering, "I jaywalk all the time. Really. I'm a serial jaywalker."
I press my lips together forcefully, presenting the best solemn face I can manage. "I should arrest you right now."
"Well, I imagine that would certainly make for a good column."
"So, I have your permission then?"
He holds his hands out in front of me, palms up. I search through my purse for a second before pouting. "Shoot, I must have left my handcuffs in my other bag."
"A common mistake, I'm sure."
"You have no idea," I say and roll my eyes.
He's about to answer when the car eases to a stop. "We're here," Patrick says and reaches for the door. And then, with his fingers still resting on the handle, he turns back to me, adding, "Oh, and Skylar?"
"Yeah?" I say, pulling my eyes away from the view of the fountain out my window. Let's be honest, his face is way more interesting anyway.
"You forgot to mention a kiss," he murmurs, vision dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes.
"What about it?" I whisper, a little entranced—caught in the force of his gaze, the heat of it.
"I think it'll make our date newsworthy." And then he's gone, opening the door and stepping out of the car.
My imagination takes over and instead of doing things like, I don't know, following, I'm picturing what it would be like to kiss him. To have those strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. To have those soft lips tease mine, pulling and pushing, slipping down to my throat, over to the soft spot below my ear, down a little more—
My face slams against the seat.
Ow.
I adjust, sitting up and rubbing my cheek, when bam! Realization hits.
I fell over.
I actually got so mesmerized just thinking about kissing him that I fell over…inside of a car. How is that even possible? My entire body still tingles from the imaginary kiss. And I have to admit—I'm a little nervous how I'll react if it happens in real life. Well, not if, when. Definitely when. Cue the heart palpitations!
"Uh, Skylar? You coming?" Patrick teases.
Shoot! Did he see me?
"Sorry!" I scramble to follow, mind not quite working right, and I bump my head on the door on my way out.
Ow. Again.
More lightheadedness is so not what I need right now.
Patrick offers his hand and I take it thankfully, leaning on him while my racing thoughts clear. We make our way to the elevator, up a whole lot of floors, and arrive at the restaurant. To my amazement, my conversational skills return and we chitchat about nonsense until we're led to our table.
The sight takes my breath away.
Oh, yeah. This date is definitely newsworthy.
Our table rests right next to a floor-to-ceiling window, and I don't think I've ever seen New York look more beautiful than it does right now. The sun just finished setting, illuminating a midnight sky with soft aquamarine light. Far above, the stars flicker to life, brightening with each passing second, and farther down, countless windows across the horizon resemble floating lanterns against the deepening dark. The park is a forest shrouded in bottomless evergreen, vivified every so often by the orange glow of a streetlight. From so high up, the city looks quieter, more peaceful.
"Patrick," I say, sighing, because I can't find any other words.
He pulls my seat out and for the first time I notice the candles in the center of the table. They're always there, I'm sure, but right now it just seems like another thing to add to the growing list of romance. And bubbling beside the flame, shimmering like liquid gold, are two glasses of champagne. Across the soft light, I meet his eyes, warm brown at the center then brightening to dazzling emerald, and I get the sense that though he's been to the restaurant a dozen times before, this time might be different, might be special for him too. We clink our glasses, neither bothering to look away. A few minutes later, we're interrupted by a waiter.
"Your first course," he says and begins describing some sort of tuna tartare dish. I look down at the spoonful of tiny maroon cubes garnished with vegetables I don’t recognize because they're in miniscule shavings.