Do I Know You?(52)

Graham considers me. “Two hours,” he repeats slowly. “I think we could go longer, if you’re up to it.”

My cheeks flame. The look in his eyes says he is not referring to coffee.

Preempting whatever reply I could have managed, the waiter returns with our first course, shrimp ceviche in crispy cones. Truthfully, I usually wouldn’t go for this sort of set menu even if Graham suggested it, not trusting myself to enjoy whatever comes next. Tonight, though, I think I’m in the mood to do exactly that. I’m in character. Besides, I want to match Graham in every way he pushes us.

I eat my ceviche cone in one bite. I don’t regret it.

“I like how confident you are,” I remark, remembering I decide how Vacation Planner Eliza responds to energetic comments from attractive men. She plays it cool.

He pauses. “To be honest, I feel like you’re out of my league. I have to do something to compensate.”

I drop my napkin in surprise. Before I can bend down to pick it up, the waiter is there, picking it up and placing it delicately on my lap. “You think I’m out of your league? Why?”

When Graham laughs, the bashful way he does it catches me off guard. It’s entirely him, and entirely not in character. “Eliza, look at yourself. And furthermore, you’re . . . comfortable, charismatic, interesting wherever you are. You fit in.”

Despite a different heat racing into me, I’m quick to reply. “You do, too. Besides, have you seen yourself? I’m sure I’m not even the only woman to be interested in you in the last twenty-four hours.”

“So you’re interested?” he says playfully.

I let my discreet smile speak for itself. But something in the exchange has snagged on my heart in ways I can’t quite put my finger on. While Graham looks satisfied in the silence, I find his eyes, figuring it out while I speak. “Did the . . . last woman you were with make you feel like you were lesser?”

I steel myself, preparing for heartbreak. Frankly, I’ll be crushed if I did something to make him feel this way.

“No, it wasn’t her fault,” he says, his expression clouding over. “I think it’s just the way I see myself.”

I say nothing, struggling under the complicated weight of this response, this math problem made of lead. I don’t feel relieved by his reply. I’m sad—sad that Graham, the most wonderful person in the world, doesn’t see himself in the full spectrum of colors I do. “Well, I’ll do a better job of showing you how wrong you are,” I say, then catch myself. “Better—better than your ex, I mean. She must have been a fool not to make it clear to you.”

He smiles softly. “What about you?” he asks. “Something must have happened to take that two-hour conversation to feeling like your ex no longer saw you? What could he have done better?”

I gaze out over the restaurant. The answer to his question feels heavy in ways I’m not ready to face, not on this stunning “first date.” Not on this gorgeous patio, this space where our real lives seem to slip into dream or fantasy.

My eyes find the couples dancing, sharing companionable silence or murmured conversation. Straightening, I face Graham with a smile. “Well, to start, he could have danced with me more,” I say.

Something in Graham’s eyes dims. He knows I’m avoiding the real conversation. I feel cowardly. Still, I’m grateful when he doesn’t pry. I don’t want to shatter the spell of the night we’re having, not when everything is going well.

Graham stands up and offers me his hand. I see the new decision in him, the swift choice to enjoy the night with me instead of pressing into misgivings. It’s thrillingly sexy. His next words come out low with purpose. “Eliza,” he says, “would you dance with me?”

Putting my hand in his, I let him lead us to the space in front of the musicians. They’re playing something slower in a minor key, the melodic line soulfully romantic. The music floats over us like the scent of flowers on the wind, intoxicating in their sweet headiness. Under the amber lights, the rest of the world melts into the moment.

Graham holds me close. It reminds me of our wedding, of the dance classes we took together to get ready. Graham is a decent dancer, and with this new confidence he’s putting on, he’s genuinely good. He guides us with a firm hand, which frees my mind to focus on the way our bodies brush against each other, the feel of his fingers pressed to the small of my back.

And what I hope happens after we finish dinner.

I’m not the only one, I realize. I feel Graham pressed firmly to me when our hips move together in rhythm with the music. He smiles slightly when I lean forward a little more, following the pressure of his hand, letting my thigh meet with his erection. He doesn’t hide it. He couldn’t if he tried.

“I suppose I should be embarrassed,” he says into my shoulder.

I move even closer, swaying with him. His eyes flutter shut.

“You really shouldn’t,” I whisper in reply.

We lavish in our closeness for the next few seconds. I smell Graham, my Graham, under the new citrus-pine scent of hotel shower gel. The scent captures the night perfectly, the combination of home and here, of foreign and familiar. Cheek to cheek, I feel him breathe me in. “I don’t know how I’m going to get back to the table,” he confesses.

I laugh softly into his neck. “I could help?” I suggest.