Rugged(57)

We’re almost to the door when he pulls me to the side. “Before we go in, I wanted to show you something. Hope you like it,” he says, leading the way as we head upstairs to the house’s attic floor, which is lit up from inside and looks warm and cozy.

When we enter, it’s suddenly very clear why they call this place the Bookmill—the place is a book nerd’s paradise. The lights are soft on the gabled walls and exposed wooden beams. Plush little wingback chairs are circled around reading tables. The walls are packed with books, all just begging to be taken down and opened. I’m instantly on alert, scanning the shelves for something good. And there’s a lot that’s good here. I grab an old copy of Ernest Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast, all about the time he spent living in Paris. When I was a teenager, I liked to imagine hanging around Europe in the 1920s. Cigarette holder in one hand, book in the other, wearing original Chanel designs and flirting with F. Scott Fitzgerald over tumblers of good whiskey. You know. Same fantasies as every other kid.

Flint picks up a book, his eyes sparkling as he scans the jacket copy.

“You’re a reader?” I ask, trying to hide my excitement as we look over the selection. I saw bookshelves back at his place, but sometimes people put those in just for show. Tyler was like that.

I need to stop thinking about that loser. Flint’s here, and he’s happy to talk about his reading habits.

“Three Body Problem. Left Hand of Darkness.” He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m a sci-fi guy myself.”

I have to keep from screaming out in excitement. “Rendezvous with Rama?”

“Oh wow.” His eyes light up. “Arthur C. Clarke was a god. Exploring that spaceship was incredible! Absolutely nothing happened!”

“I never wanted it to end,” I sigh. I playfully tap his shoulder as I move around him, taking in more of the shelves. “So rare to meet anyone who shares my enthusiasm for alien civilizations. I can’t believe we never talked about this.”

Flint draws me to him and traces the line of my jaw with his thumb, and as he gazes at me like he wants to eat me alive a wave of heat uncurls in my belly. “I’m a believer in first contact,” he whispers in my ear. My breath catches in my throat.

“Did I mention I’m not wearing panties tonight?” I whisper back huskily, my hands sliding down the planes of his chest to the waistband of his pants, except—stupid man belts. Always getting in the way. I tug at the buckle. “Talk nerdy to me, Flint.”

His breathing is strained. “I—”

And then our reservation is called out, and I’m almost disappointed to head downstairs to our table. That is, until I’m seated by the window, watching the moonlight wink on the river, about to enjoy what turns out to be one of the best meals of my life.

The wine Flint chooses is amazing, and the bourbon-glazed salmon, mango saffron rice and braised kale make my foodie Angeleno heart sing. As we drink and dine, Flint and I continue with our sci-fi nerdery. Of all the planets in Star Wars, I’d want to live on Naboo (“You can’t pick anything from the prequels! It’s sacrilege,”) and he’d choose Endor (“The teddy bear people?” “They have a great affinity for nature!”). I can’t remember ever enjoying a dinner conversation this much. Especially when I find out that Flint was kind of a wild man back in New York. Well, sort of.

“You actually tried to break in to the penguin tank in the Central Park zoo?” I say, unable to keep a straight face. Flint laughs, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“In my defense, I’d had a few beers and I’ve always loved penguins. When I was a kid, my plan was to go to Antarctica and study marine biology.” He shakes his head good-naturedly. “I thought I’d be swimming with polar bears and surfing on icebergs.”

“What stopped you? Fear of elephant seals?” I ask, taking another sip of wine.

“There aren’t any deciduous forests that far south.” I pause, wondering if this is another joke. Flint sighs. “I can’t be far from the woods. I know it makes me sound like I should be running around in a fringe jacket with a coonskin cap, but this is where my heart is.” He looks out the window, appreciating the trees that sway in the moonlight. He’s both brooding and calm; thoroughly irresistible.

I feel a twinge of sadness when he mentions how he never wants to leave this place. But I push it out of my mind. Not now, Young. Not tonight.

“I understand,” I say. I mean, sort of. I can’t be that far away from the nearest Chinese/French fusion place in the nearest city. I love trees. I just don’t love them so much I have to be right next to them all the time. Do palm trees count? I clear my throat. “So how were you not arrested and thrown into penguin snatching jail?”

“Apparently the Central Park zoo has this really experimental new policy in place for after hours. New technology, but they’re calling it ‘alarms.’” He chuckles. “The bells and whistles started blowing, and I realized I was sitting there, one leg over the fence, trying to snatch an Emperor penguin. I was planning on naming him Jeff.” Flint refills his wine glass and then mine. I do like a courteous man. “Anyway my buddies and I ran out of there as fast as we could. Only nice thing about New York is you can disappear into the crowd in no time.” He laughs again, a lock of hair falling into his eyes. I reach out and brush it away. He grabs my wrist and kisses the palm of my hand. Once, then twice, slower, while I melt under his attentive gaze.