“I’m so curious. What’s it like to craft your novels? Seems like it would be hard to keep track of everything,” I venture, eager to know more about her.
Carlie’s eyes light up, a hint of passion flickering behind them. “It’s like being a puppet master, in a way. You get to create these worlds, these characters, and then make them fall in love. It’s exhilarating, and frustrating, and utterly rewarding. At least, it is when the words flow easily.”
Her words peter out a bit and I take that as a sign her writing hasn’t been going so well lately.
Rather than take her down a path that feels like a sore spot, I lean in and say, “Sounds amazing. You must have an incredible imagination.”
“I mean, I guess?” she says, then her expression shifts to something more playful. “There’s also a fair bit of ...research.”
I can’t help but raise an eyebrow. “Research? That sounds ...intriguing. Do tell.”
She laughs, a sound that stirs something deep inside me. “Well, you have to know what you’re writing about, right? Experience is the best teacher.”
The innuendo isn’t lost on me, and I feel a warmth spread straight through my lower half. “I suppose that means your books are ... quite authentic?”
She takes another sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. “Oh, I strive for authenticity. But there’s always room to learn more. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say, my voice nearly cracking.
There’s something in the way she speaks—like sex and intimacy is more than just an act. It’s something to be truly relished in.
To beexperienced.
The air between us crackles with unspoken tension, and I take a long sip of my beer, trying to cool the sudden heat I’m feeling. This conversation is veering dangerously close to territory that’s both exciting and nerve-wracking.
Just then, our meals arrive, and we both turn our attention to the food. Carlie’s pork shank looks incredible and my duck is nothing short of heavenly.
She must like it, too, because she moans after a bite. “This is ... so good—in a‘my tastebuds are on a rollercoaster’kind of way.”
“Sounds interesting. Trade you for a bite?” I suggest, offering her a taste of mine.
She agrees, and as we switch plates, our hands briefly touch, sending a spark of electricity between us. For a moment, we lock eyes, and there’s a silent acknowledgment of the chemistry we’re both feeling.
“So, how did you end up in Duluth?” I ask, wanting to know everything I can about her.
“Well, I grew up in central Minnesota—a small town not really worth mentioning. But after college, I was trying to figure out where I wanted to live and Duluth seemed like a fun pace. My mom grew up here and my grandma—yes, the same one—still lived here. So, I figured why not give it a try?” She says, a ghost of a smile flitting to her lips. “Grandma’s getting older and needed a renter. I wanted to spend more time with her while I still can. So …”
“So, you moved upstairs,” I finish for her. “That’s really awesome of you.”
She chews on her bottom lip before taking another bite of her food.
It’s obvious she cares a lot for the people around her and based on the way she talks about her books, she desperately wants to find a kind of love and connection others only dream of.
Yet, there’s a hint of something—something dark that sometimes lingers and I can’t help but wonder who hurt her.
One thing’s for sure, she’s been through a lot, and yet she’s still here, still standing strong.
We talk about our favorite places in the city—our shared love of the Lift Bridge. The conversation flows effortlessly, and I find myself losing track of time.
It’s as if the world outside this little café has ceased to exist, and it’s just Carlie and me, sharing a piece of our lives with each other as we share a meal.
I don’t want the night to end. I want to keep talking to her—keep learning about her. Keep sharing more of myself.
As we finish our meal, Carlie looks out the window thoughtfully. The sun has set long ago and a bright crescent moon shines over the lake.
“You know, I always thought romance was something you only read about in books. But tonight feels like I’m living in one of my own stories,” she whispers. “Does that sound dorky?”
“I’m glad to be part of your story,” I say sincerely, reaching out to place my hand over hers.