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“Hmm?”
I blink rapidly until I’m back in the car. Aware of my fingers, still spinning the button on my coat. Of Eli, looking and smelling so good just a foot or so away. Of the fact that I was just babbling.
“Do youwanta courthouse wedding?” Eli asks.
No. The answer is immediate in my mind, even if it takes a moment to wrangle my tongue into submission.
“I mean, we don’t really have time for anything else. People spend a year or more planning weddings. And this isn’t—this is just, um …”
I’m not going to say it’s not real. I can’t. Because for me … it is real. Orsomethings are real. Right now, slightly drunk on Eli, I’m not sure.
Eli pulls into a parking spot at the restaurant, then turns to face me, one hand on the wheel and the other on the back of my seat. I want to lean into his hand. I can practically feel the heat coming off him.
“What would you like to do?” Eli asks, his gaze piercing. “If this were the wedding of your dreams, what would you like?”
I glance down, still toying with the button on my coat. Eli drops his hand, lacing our fingers together.
“I never really gave it much thought,” I say, studying our hands. I look up, meeting his gaze. “Have you?”
“Would it surprise you if I said yes?”
Not in the least. I smile. “Actually, no. You seem like—” I stop, unable to finish the sentence I started.
“How do I seem?” he asks.
I draw in a breath. “You seem like a romantic, hockey player.”
“You’re very observant, Bailey … Wait—I don’t know your last name. How can I not know your last name?”
I drop my head back, laughing. This seems like the most perfect kind of irony. Is irony even the word? Probably not. Still—being ready to take the last name of a man who doesn’t know mine is ridiculous.
“We sort of skipped over that part, huh? My last name is McKinney.”
“Well, Bailey McKinney, soon to be Bailey Hopkins—it sounds like we’ve got a wedding to plan,” he says. “Let’s discuss the details inside. With breadsticks.”
I smile. “Always with breadsticks.”
Eli apparently made a reservation, which shouldn’t make me as happy as it does. Our table is by the fireplace, which would be cozy—maybe even romantic?—except that the table closest to ours has three children all watching different shows on iPads. Full volume. No earphones. I wish I didn’t know who Blippi is,but I do. And now he’ll be joining us on our date because the little girl in the highchair apparently loves him.
The waiter drops off our waters, and Eli suddenly gets jumpy. Fidgeting in his seat, wiping his hands repeatedly on his thighs, looking around the restaurant everywhere but at me. It’s honestly kind of adorable to see him struck with the same kind of affliction I deal with on a somewhat frequent basis.
“So,” Eli says loudly. “Food!”
Reaching for the menus, he somehow knocks over both of our glasses, sending a sea of water into his lap.
He jumps to his feet, patting at his jeans with a napkin, but there is very little hope. His jeans are more wet than dry, specifically in the upper parts of the legs and crotch.
“Wa-wa!” the little girl at the next table says, Blippi forgotten in favor of Eli’s entertainment. She slaps her tiny palms on the table with a manic grin of pure delight, and I cover my mouth to hide my laughter.
“That’s why we have lids,” one of the little boys says, pointing to his plastic cup. His very serious expression is tempered only by the fact that he’s missing both front teeth. “I’m sure they’ll give you one if you ask.”
“It looks like you peed your pants,” the other boy adds. He’s younger and looks like he recently took scissors to his bangs. “Jason peed his pants after recess, and he looked just like you.”
Poor Eli. Now, even the parents are trying not to laugh.
“We keep extra clothes in our cubby,” the boy continues. “Do you have extra clothes?”
Eli gives up trying to dry his pants, tossing his napkin into the booth with a sigh. “My dude, I don’t even have a cubby.”
