When the waiter comes to take our drink order, I flounder, looking to him for guidance. I don’t know why. I’ve never needed help ordering a drink before. Especially not on a date.

“Can I have sparkling water for now?” I ask Lance, not the waiter.

He picks up my hand and kisses my knuckles. “You can have whatever you want, precious.”

“Would you like to look at the wine list?” the waiter asks.

“Um—” The question seems to be directed at me.

“Sure, you can just leave it with us.” Lance takes it from him without even glancing in his direction. “You want anything other than water to start?”

I bite my lip and decide to order what I want without worrying about looking silly. “May I have a Shirley Temple, please?”

The smile that spreads across Lance’s perfectly kissable lips is as breathtaking as it is sweet. “Make that two.”

The waiter nods and disappears.

“Living on the edge, aye?” Lance bites my knuckle through a grin.

“Watch out. I’m a real wild one.”

“Not even a little, eh?”

My answering smile is all mischief. “I’ve always been a good girl.”

“Then what’re ya doin’ here with me?” The accent that’s barely noticeable most of the time gets heavier, along with his gaze.

“I don’t think you’re nearly as bad as you make yourself out to be.”

“I’m probably worse.” He’s still smiling, but for a second it goes dark. Then his expression grows serious. “You look so beautiful.”

I tip my chin down. “Thank you.”

He fingers the strap at my shoulder. “I love this dress.”

Green is his favorite color. I already knew that when I pulled it out of the closet the night he asked me out. I smooth out the skirt, feeling self-conscious and overheated. The kiss he laid on me in his car lingers on my lips. I want him to do it again. Over and over.

There’s something about him that draws me in. It’s the same something that pulled me in when I was a girl.

I want to understand how he can be so sweet with me and so hard on the ice. And why his reputation is so incredibly deplorable. I want the rumors not to be true, even though I know they must be. At least some of them. But it doesn’t make sense with how averse he is to touch.

I don’t ask any of those questions, though, because I don’t want to ruin the perfect bubble we’re in right now.

“Would you like me to order wine?”

He keeps brushing his lips across my knuckles. My stomach is fluttering so much it’s hard to focus on anything but the feeling. “I’d have a glass.”

“To go with your Shirley Temple?”

“Are you making fun of me?”

He uncurls my fingers and drags the index one across his bottom lip. “I think it’s precious, just like you.”

That name sends a sweet shiver down my spine and raises goose bumps along my arms. “You’re full of lines tonight.”

“You think I’m feeding you lines?” I see his hurt even though he’s still smiling.

I hate that I don’t know whether to trust my gut with him. I want to. But I’m not sure what he wants out of this. “I don’t know. Are you?”

He releases my hand, setting it on the table and propping his fist under his chin, as though he’s contemplating my comment. “Why would you think I need to feed you lines?”

“I don’t think you need to do anything. I think you’re used to getting whatever, or maybe whoever, you want.”

“But you’re not whatever or whoever, Poppy. You get that, right?”

“I’m not?” I’m pushing now, but I want something from him. Some kind of reassurance that he’s not going to play me like he does other women.

He takes my hand again and presses my palm against the side of his neck. I feel the heavy thud of his pulse beneath my palm. “I want this. You.”

“Why?” I still don’t understand why me. What makes me so different from everyone else? What makes me special?

“This.” His fingers caress the back of mine, still pressed against his cheek. “Feels nice.” He opens his eyes slowly. The weight of them on me is almost suffocating. “It’s never felt nice before.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s never been you before.”

“But it has been me before.”

“You mean in the closet?”

“Mmm. Was it nice then?” I remember the sound he made when he kissed me, the way his arm tightened around me, the hard lines of his body as he pulled me closer and his tongue swept my mouth.

“It was. So I had to work really hard to forget it for a long time.” Lance flips the wine list open.

I want to ask why he wanted to forget something I spent most of my teen years replaying over and over like some kind of dirty Disney love story, but he seems to be done talking about that.

“Do you like red or white?” he asks.

“I prefer white.” Of all of the alcohol options out there, white wine is the one that doesn’t give me an immediate hangover.

“And you’re sure you’ll have a glass if I order a bottle?”

“Yes.”

“Because you want to or because you’ll feel obligated?” He’s reclaimed my hand and is kissing the tips of all my fingers now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as his tongue touches the pad of my thumb.