“Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling shy despite our previous interactions.
“Hi yourself,” he replies, his voice deep and steady. “You look beautiful.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself.”
He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “I try.” He gestures toward his truck parked at the curb. “Ready?”
As we walk, his hand brushes against mine—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not.
He opens the passenger door for me, and as I slide in, I catch a whiff of his cologne—something woodsy and subtle. When he walks around to the driver’s side, I take a quick breath to steady myself. This feels different from other first dates. There’s something comfortable yet thrilling about being with Julian, like we’ve known each other much longer than we actually have.
As he starts the truck, he glances over at me with a half-smile that makes my heart skip. “How was work today?”
“Busy. End-of-month inventory always make everyone a little crazy. You?”
“Had a client meeting that ran long. Almost thought I’d have to push back our plans.” He pauses at a red light and turns to face me fully. “I’m glad I didn’t have to.”
Those eyes. They’re so intent when they focus on me, like I’m the only person in his world at that moment. The light changes and he returns his attention to the road, but I feel the lingering warmth of his gaze.
We pull up to a small restaurant tucked between two larger buildings. True to Julian’s description, fairy lights twinkle in the trees of a charming courtyard visible through wrought-iron gates. It’s perfect—intimate without being overwhelming for a first date.
As we walk from the truck to the entrance, Julian’s hand finds the small of my back, a gentle pressure that guides me forward - both protective and possessive in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
The hostess leads us to a corner table in the courtyard, partially secluded by potted plants. Julian pulls out my chair, and when our eyes meet as I sit down, I see something flash in his—a momentary intensity that suggests he’s thinking about more than just dinner conversation.
“Wine?” he asks, opening the menu.
“Yes, please,” I reply, grateful for something to calm my nerves.
When the waiter arrives, Julian orders a bottle of red without hesitation, then looks to me. “Trust me?” he asks with a slight smile.
I nod, realizing that I do, perhaps more than makes sense for how long we’ve known each other. There’s something about him that feels safe.
As the evening unfolds, we trade stories about work disasters, family holidays gone wrong, and books we’ve loved. Julian is an attentive listener, leaning forward slightly when Ispeak, asking questions that show he’s truly interested in my answers.
By dessert—a chocolate something-or-other that we agree to head back to my place for another drink. He didn’t have anything to drink since he’s driving.
The drive back to my place is filled with an occasional comment about the town lights as we pass through downtown. His hand rests on the gear shift, and once or twice his fingers brush against my knee.
Stepping into my house, I’m suddenly aware of how it might look through his eyes—the stack of novels on the coffee table, the half-finished painting propped against the wall, the throw blanket haphazardly folded on the couch.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, gesturing toward the living room. “I’ll grab some drinks. What would you like?”
Julian moves into the space with casual confidence, glancing around with interest rather than judgment. “Whatever you’re having is fine,” he says, stopping to examine the painting. “Did you do this?”
I nod, feeling oddly vulnerable. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice makes me believe him. “You didn’t mention you were an artist.”
“More of a hobbyist,” I clarify, heading to the kitchen. “Nothing serious.”
I pull two glasses from the cabinet, grateful for the moment to collect myself. The evening has gone better than I could have hoped, but now that we’re alone in my place, the energy has shifted. The possibility of what might happen hangs in the air between us.
When I return with two glasses of wine, Julian has settled on the couch, his arm stretched along the back in a way that seems to be waiting for me to fill the space beside him. I do, keeping a respectable distance that still feels intimate.
“Cheers,” he says, clinking his glass against mine. “To first dates that don’t suck.”
I laugh, the tension easing slightly. “The bar was that low, huh?”
