The Christmas Crush

Chapter 17

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Elena arrived in a heart-stealing red dress. Her glorious dark hair in loose curls, her lips glossy, inviting. “Wow. You are incredible,” he said. They shared an awkward hug—too much space between them. She smelled like citrus, bright and clean. Her left cheek grazed his as they parted, skin soft against his for that brief touch. “And hello, by the way.”

“You don’t look so bad yourself,” she said in her light, teasing way.

He didn’t tell her his outfit—a slim button-down and flat-front pants—was entirely his sister’s doing. Lonnie had made him hold up every item in his meagre wardrobe during a frantic FaceTime call. Before his sister’s help, he’d gazed at his clothes in wide-eyed horror, unsure if he owned anything suitable. Lonnie had knocked it out of the park, because even he could see the sky-blue shirt highlighted his eyes. “Thank you. I rolled out of bed like this.”

She rewarded him with one of her pretty, bemused smiles.

Lawrence held open the door to Francesco’s, and they walked together into the cozy space. Succulent aromas from the classic Italian kitchen greeted them. Simmering red sauces, fresh-baked bread, roasting meat. Besides an exceptional menu, Francesco’s boasted romantic dark-wood paneling, numerous tables for two, and cream roses at every table. Next to him, Elena drew in a quick breath as a hostess in a black dress led them to the best table in the house. Had he chosen a good spot?

As soon as Elena agreed to the date, he had called in a favor from Francesco himself. A few months ago, a supply chain issue had left Francesco without flour to bread his cutlets, a specialty of the house. Francesco’s twins had gone to school with Lawrence, so when he asked Lawrence for some flour to cover the shortfall, Lawrence agreed without conditions. The good karma came back when Lawrence called for help with the date. Francesco had promised him the L-shaped booth for two right by the stone fireplace.

Every single guy in New Hope knew that little booth almost guaranteed a cuddle at the end of the date, if everything went well. Francesco had gone the extra mile and adorned the table with half a dozen of his signature roses. I can’t be too out of practice if I pulled this off , Lawrence assured himself.

“Do you like wine?” he asked Elena, peering at the list when they sat. Stupid question. “I mean, I’m sure you do.”

An elegant woman like Elena probably knew all the best vintages. He wasn’t a total fool when it came to wine because of his culinary education. He’d focused on pastries, but he had still completed coursework in cooking, menu building, and wine pairing.

“Do I look like a drinker?” Elena asked, raising a brow. He felt his face blanch, blood rushing away to his galloping heart. “I’m sorry, Lawrence, I shouldn’t tease you. I do like wine, very much, thank you. Especially Pinot Noir. Is that okay for you?”

“Anything you want.” His voice came out in a croak.

Elena reached past the flowers and candles, laid her hand over his. “I forget how sarcastic I can be. Do I make you nervous?”

He let out a breath he definitely knew he was holding, his chest burning. His eyes lingered on their joined hands. Our first real touch.

“That obvious, huh? Believe it or not, this is me doing my utmost to be relaxed.” Her fingertips grazed over the back of his hand. If she meant it to be comforting, it was having the opposite effect, making him hyperaware of their bodies. Of the feel of her. “I wanted to come across aloof, like I do this all the time, but the truth is, you intimidate me a little.”

“Really? I didn’t think six-foot-five guys got intimidated by anyone.”

“They probably don’t. I’m only six three. So, there’s the problem.” He turned his hand over to make them palm to palm. He wanted to lean over and kiss her hand, but it seemed too sudden, or strange. Instead, he curled his fingers over hers. His hand enclosed hers entirely.

“I’m nobody to be worried about. I get nervous too,” Elena said.

“That’s hard to imagine. You project a lot of confidence.”

“That’s my dad talking.”

He’d assumed the self-assurance was inborn. “Oh yeah? How so?”

“My dad is an amazing man, accomplished, brilliant, unable to understand anyone who isn’t. Dad made a point to push me out of my comfort zone until I learned to be outspoken. I had no choice but to mimic what I saw modeled. Hard to tell if I really feel as confident as I act.” Her little laugh when she stopped speaking suggested she wasn’t bothered by her dad’s personality; the way she looked away, out into the dining room, suggested otherwise.

The server, a skinny young guy Lawrence didn’t recognize, interrupted this glimpse into Elena’s life to take their order. Lawrence ordered a bottle of California Pinot Noir, and Elena suggested they share the caprese appetizer.

While they waited for their drinks, Elena told him more about her dad—a high-powered lawyer who expected his children to be equally poised. If the topic bothered her, she did an excellent job concealing it, this time keeping eye contact. “My brothers are both lawyers. They’re naturals. It never came easy to me.”

“You didn’t want to be a lawyer, then?” Elena’s willingness to share put him at ease, made him eager to hold up his end of the conversation.

“No way. I’m not the type to fight with people for a living. Not that marketing is my dream job either, but here I am.”

Hold up, Elena didn’t want to work for Sparkle Cookie? He wouldn’t have dared to hope. He stopped his thoughts from racing away with the prospect of her ditching that job, making his life easier on every front. He didn’t believe Sparkle would be half as successful without her. “What did you want to do?”

Their waiter set the caprese between them. They let go of each other’s hands to make room for the oval platter of ripe tomatoes, mozzarella, and balsamic vinegar drizzle. Elena took a helping, and he tried not to get inky balsamic on the tablecloth as he transferred a tomato to his appetizer plate.

“I wanted to be an artist, but it’s hard to make a living from painting. A lucky few manage, I guess. I even got accepted to a great art school on the strength of my portfolio. Except my dad wouldn’t hear of it. Too worried I’d end up starving in some garret. No matter how I begged, he refused. Flat would not pay for it.

“He told me he loved my art but loved me having a stable future more. My high school friends told me to strike out on my own. By then my confidence was too shaken to risk taking out a massive student loan. We compromised on a degree in marketing with a minor in graphic design.”

Didn’t sound like much of a compromise to him. Lawrence searched for a thoughtful response, pressing away immediate comebacks like your dad sucks . “I saw some of your work. It’s stunning. We hung up your tiny painting of the gazebo on our bulletin board in Sweet L’s. Customers keep asking about it.”

Elena finished chewing her tomato. “Mmm, that is good. The perfect balance of the tomato’s acidity and creaminess from the cheese.”

He appreciated anyone who enjoyed fine food.

“Absolutely,” Lawrence said, wondering why she didn’t respond to his compliment about her painting.

“Am I right? I have no idea what I’m talking about. I looked up ten conversation starters to have with a chef. See, there’s a hint for you from my dad: you can find self-confidence online. Just avoid the dating apps if you don’t want to get dragged right back down. That’s a tip from me.”

“I hope to avoid them,” he said, to gauge her reaction. If she smiled, it meant she didn’t want him looking for other women to date.

“Solid plan,” she said, her face unreadable.

The waiter returned to take the dinner orders, bouncing from foot to foot like he didn’t have time to waste. The restaurant was full, since it was Saturday, but Francesco’s had a slow pace. At least Lawrence didn’t feel as on edge as the waiter. He pulled his shoulders from around his ears to make his body language match his calmer mood.

“Fettucine alfredo for me,” Elena said. “I can’t resist it.”

“Wait till you see how they do it here,” Lawrence told her once the waiter left.

“How?”

He didn’t answer, to wind her up.

“How do they do it?”

“No way. I’m not spoiling the surprise.”

“Ooo! I love surprises. Good ones, at least. I assume this one is good. They won’t dump the noodles on my lap or anything like that, right?”

“I said I can’t give anything away.”

“This is a new dress, Lawrence Higgins. I warn you …”

She’d bought a dress for their date? Hell yeah. Biggest sign of interest she’d given so far. No woman would waste money on a dress for a first date if she didn’t think the guy worthwhile. “I promise nothing will happen to your gorgeous dress.”

“If that white sauce comes near me, I swear I’m tearing this dress off and eating dinner in my underwear, just watch me.”

“Hey now! If that’s your plan, I’ll dump the fettucine on you myself.” He might not be as quick with the verbal sparring as Elena, but that one was easy.

“You’re lucky we’re in such a nice place, or I’d fling this tomato right at you.” She giggled, a high, happy sound. Lawrence had never been threatened with a food fight on a first date. He liked the way her mind worked. One minute telling him her history in a polished manner like a news anchor, the next making some absurd comment. “Then you’ll have to take off your shirt. Give me an eyeful of whatever under there had all the ladies scoping you out at the cookie swap.”

The waiter pulled up a silver cart beside their table, putting an end to their very promising discussion about stripping. Elena’s dark eyes watched with rapt attention as the waiter scooped noodles from a bowl and into a large Parmesan wheel. Most of the Parmesan had been used for other recipes, leaving behind a pale-yellow bowl made of cheese held together with the black rind. Using a pair of tongs, the waiter swirled the steaming-hot sauced noodles around in the remaining cheese. Elena clapped when he pulled the noodles out, trails of now-melted cheese dripping. Absolute decadence.

“There you go, Elena, the freshest fettucine alfredo in all of New Hope,” he said, the bliss in her expression infectious, making him smile. The waiter placed the shallow bowl in front of her. Without pause, she started wrapping a noodle around her fork with the help of a large spoon.

“It’s the most beautiful thing in the whole world,” she said reverently.

No, that’s you. It was more than the sensual red dress hugging her in all the places he wanted to touch. More than the long hair he wanted to tangle his fingers in, his hand at the back of her head, holding her close for a kiss. It was also her willingness to share about her family, her enthusiasm for painting. The cute way she admitted to researching culinary conversation starters. The way his palm still felt more alive in the place where she’d touched it, irrespective of the fact that she’d long since removed her hand.

All he could do now was hope the rest of the date impressed her as much as the fettucine.