Ben stands as I reach the table. His hands settle briefly on my shoulders before his lips brush my cheek.
“Good evening,” he says, voice low.
“Hello,” I murmur back, caught slightly off-guard as my skin tingles where his lips touched.
Warmth creeps over my cheeks. He takes my coat, passing it to a nearby waiter, then pulls out my chair. I sit down, and he takes his own seat.
Neither of us speak, both looking then quickly glancing away like teenagers.
This feels like a date.
Thankfully, a waiter appears with a bottle of wine. Barolo. He tilts the bottle toward me so I can see the label. I nod.
“How did you know?” I ask Ben.
His cheeks redden ever so slightly. I imagine matching my own. It makes him less composed, more unsure-looking.
“I asked Clara.”
He wanted to know enough about me to ask. That required effort.
“You’re thorough,” I say, half-whispering, barely able to look at him. His gaze never leaves my face. For a moment, it drops to my lips before finding my eyes again. I forget what I was about to say next, but I hold his gaze as if I didn’t.
“You don’t strike me as a woman who leaves things to chance.”
Our waiter moves to pour a taste into Ben’s glass, but he signals to mine.
“It’s good,” I say. “I’ve had it before.”
He nods, but doesn’t ask where. I’m relieved I don’t need to answer that this place is my safe haven every Friday. He doesn’t need to know that. Not yet, if at all.
Tonight, the familiar red is spicier on the back of my tongue. The bite of cherry first before it spreads to leather. A drink that’s meant to be savored, not gulped like a cheap supermarket counterpart.
Ben sips along with me. Our glasses meet the table at the same time.
“Is it like you remembered?” he asks.
I hesitate, unsure if he’s talking about the wine or being at dinner. I assume the wine.
“Stronger. A little sharp, but it mellows over time.”
The sides of his mouth twitch, and he takes another sip of his own. His throat muscles move as he swallows. I find myself staring.
A menu appears in my hands, breaking my focus.
Ben doesn’t seem to notice. Thankfully.
“A bit like people…” he muses.
“What is?”
He looks up from his menu. Eyebrows drawn together, obviously confused that I’m not following.
“Sharp, then mellow with time.”
I don’t answer, just return to reading the list of options I’ve read a hundred times before. Heat curls in my belly more each time he speaks.
The waiter approaches. We each order a starter and a main course. He trots off after topping off our drinks.