I follow his line of sight to my refrigerator, covered in photos held up by a random collection of magnets.
“Oh.” I push off from the counter. “Those are just…”
But he’s studying them with genuine interest. There’s the shot of me on Mount Marcy, windblown and grinning despite the grueling hike. Another where I’m rocking a welding helmet and protective gear, blowtorch in hand. And my personal favorite, me on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset during my solo trip to New York for a writing conference.
“Adventure shots,” he says, his voice filled with something that sounds like admiration. “You’ve been busy while I’ve been grinding on tour.”
I lift a shoulder. “I vowed to be more adventurous.”
“After that night?”
“Actually, before that. A few months before. After my ex dumped me. But it wasn’t until I met you that I really started.”
He turns back to me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse skip. “The woman I met on that boat was incredible, but this?” He gestures toward the photos. “You’ve gone out there and lived.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not still logical. And rational.”
“Not yet crazy enough to marry a man you barely know.”
I hold his gaze, thinking of the ring sitting in the box on my dresser. I wonder if he saw it sitting there. If so, he didn’t mention it. “I’m working on it.”
“Good.”
“You’re different, too,” I point out, studying his face. “You’re mature in a way you weren’t before. More quiet confidence than cocky swagger.”
His lips quirk. “Cocky swagger?”
I throw a dishtowel at him. “You know what I mean.”
“Three years of learning patience will do that to a man,” he scoffs. “Though my willpower apparently has a very specific expiration date that coincides with being in the same room as you.”
The microwave beeps, and he turns to retrieve our food. “Come on; let’s eat before I forget about dinner entirely and carry you back to bed.”
We settle at my small dining table with the Thai spread between us. It’s surreal, having Hays Granger, the ninth-ranked golfer in the world, sitting at my thrift store table, using my mismatched plates as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I take a bite of what I thought was mild pad thai and immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment. Fire explodes across my tongue, and tears spring to my eyes as I try to maintain some semblance of dignity while my mouth feels like an inferno.
“You okay there, sweetheart?” Hays asks, pausing midchew with obvious amusement dancing in his eyes.
I nod vigorously, which is a mistake because it makes my eyes water more. I reach for my water glass and drain half of it in one gulp.
“Perfectly fine,” I croak, my voice about three octaves higher than normal.
“Uh-huh.” He leans back in his chair, clearly trying not to laugh. “You know, most people start with the mild dishes when they’re not sure about spice levels.”
“I can handle spice,” I insist, trying to double down even though my entire mouth seems to be swelling.
“Jesus, Leah.” He’s up in a flash, disappearing into my kitchen to return with a glass of milk, which he presses into my hands. “Here, drink this.”
I take a grateful sip, and the cooling relief is immediate. “How did you know that?”
“I live in Arizona, remember? Plus, I’ve eaten my way through half of Asia on tour.” He sits down, sliding his own milder curry toward me. “Try this instead. And next time, I’ll be sure not to order the ‘Thai hot’ level.”
“You ordered Thai hot?” I stare at him in horror. “AtHarbor Thai? Are you trying to kill me?”
His grin is pure mischief. “Weren’t you claiming, not half an hour ago, that you like everything from one to five chili peppers?”
Heat that has nothing to do with the food floods my cheeks. “That was about books!”
