Garrick’s engine outside. He’s coming to the door. I wait. I’m wearing a checkered pantsuit—not Hillary Clinton–style. The top is sleeveless and backless and ties at the neck. My hair is in a classic bun with wisps of curls around my face. I have a long neck, and I know this outfit and hairstyle accentuate it well. He knocks. I take a deep breath. My heart races as I reach for the doorknob. I’m a thirteen-year-old again, waiting for my first date. It’s crazy.
I open the door. I know a Fioravanti suit when I see one. How can I keep up with this guy’s wardrobe? I smile sheepishly, almost embarrassed by what I’m wearing.
“Hello, Robyn,” he says. “You look stunning.” He takes my hand and spins me around.
I laugh. “So do you.”
I grab my purse off the kitchen counter and lock the front door. We walk to his truck, then he opens the door for me. On the passenger seat, a dozen pale blue roses are waiting for me. I’m surprised and speechless. I look at him.
“They remind me of you.” He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Thank you.” I pick up the beautifully wrapped bouquet before I climb in. He shuts the door.
Customers send flowers to me all the time. But these mean something.
“Wanna put them in the backseat?” he asks.
I lean over the bench seat and gently place the flowers on the floorboard. When I turn back, Garrick’s gaze is locked on my ass.
“I can’t help myself, little bird,” he says with a shrug.
If he bent over, I’d do the same thing. Only he wouldn’t catch me watching. I’m not sure I like the nickname he’s chosen for me. “Birdie” isn’t entirely unknown to me. Before I developed curves, I was rail thin, and the boys made sure I knew it. And my mother chopped my hair short because she couldn’t make me sit still long enough to brush out the knots. Sometimes I was mistaken for a boy. Especially in the summer, when I ran around half-naked on the beach. Those are happy memories.
He starts the engine, and Eminem’s “The Monster” is playing. I shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“I thought you were a country boy.”
“I am.” He smiles. “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate good music.”
“Who’s your favorite country artist?” I ask.
“Garth Brooks.”
“Me too!” I say. “Favorite classic rock band?” My eyes narrow.
He smiles. “Led Zeppelin, hands down.”
“Wow.” We love the same music. “This is crazy. If you like the same movies, I’m outta here.”
“Top ten?” he asks. I nod.
“The Godfather trilogy, Rob Roy , The Shootist , True Grit , Fight Club . . .”
I adore John Wayne. And don’t get me started on The Godfather . Did this guy read my journal? “Favorite number?”
He shrugs. “Eight—reminds me of infinity.”
I nearly choke. If I believed in matches made in heaven . . . I know it’s insignificant stuff, but I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s the small things that count. And all those small things add up. Right?
It’s a thirty-minute drive to Rockport if we do the speed limit. We merge with traffic on South Padre Island Drive. I enjoy the blazing sunset as we cross the JFK Bridge. When we arrive at Sushi Lucky at seven, the place is empty. We pick a table and sit down. Garrick takes off his jacket and hangs it on the chair next to him. The waitress comes over and gives us menus.
“Why don’t you order for us,” Garrick suggests.
I smile. “Sure.” I open the menu and scan the sushi rolls. Most people frequent this place for the authenticity of the food, not the service. After ten minutes, I signal for the waitress. She comes back.
“We’ll have nigiri, hirame, a Fulton Roll, and a Sushi Luck Roll.”
“Anything to drink?” she asks.
“Sake,” Garrick pipes in. “Two each, and ice water.”
The waitress nods and goes to the kitchen. The restaurant is located in a renovated house, so the atmosphere is very casual. There’s a big window next to our table and I
I open the door. I know a Fioravanti suit when I see one. How can I keep up with this guy’s wardrobe? I smile sheepishly, almost embarrassed by what I’m wearing.
“Hello, Robyn,” he says. “You look stunning.” He takes my hand and spins me around.
I laugh. “So do you.”
I grab my purse off the kitchen counter and lock the front door. We walk to his truck, then he opens the door for me. On the passenger seat, a dozen pale blue roses are waiting for me. I’m surprised and speechless. I look at him.
“They remind me of you.” He caresses my cheek with the back of his hand.
“Thank you.” I pick up the beautifully wrapped bouquet before I climb in. He shuts the door.
Customers send flowers to me all the time. But these mean something.
“Wanna put them in the backseat?” he asks.
I lean over the bench seat and gently place the flowers on the floorboard. When I turn back, Garrick’s gaze is locked on my ass.
“I can’t help myself, little bird,” he says with a shrug.
If he bent over, I’d do the same thing. Only he wouldn’t catch me watching. I’m not sure I like the nickname he’s chosen for me. “Birdie” isn’t entirely unknown to me. Before I developed curves, I was rail thin, and the boys made sure I knew it. And my mother chopped my hair short because she couldn’t make me sit still long enough to brush out the knots. Sometimes I was mistaken for a boy. Especially in the summer, when I ran around half-naked on the beach. Those are happy memories.
He starts the engine, and Eminem’s “The Monster” is playing. I shake my head.
“What?” he asks.
“I thought you were a country boy.”
“I am.” He smiles. “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate good music.”
“Who’s your favorite country artist?” I ask.
“Garth Brooks.”
“Me too!” I say. “Favorite classic rock band?” My eyes narrow.
He smiles. “Led Zeppelin, hands down.”
“Wow.” We love the same music. “This is crazy. If you like the same movies, I’m outta here.”
“Top ten?” he asks. I nod.
“The Godfather trilogy, Rob Roy , The Shootist , True Grit , Fight Club . . .”
I adore John Wayne. And don’t get me started on The Godfather . Did this guy read my journal? “Favorite number?”
He shrugs. “Eight—reminds me of infinity.”
I nearly choke. If I believed in matches made in heaven . . . I know it’s insignificant stuff, but I don’t believe in coincidences. It’s the small things that count. And all those small things add up. Right?
It’s a thirty-minute drive to Rockport if we do the speed limit. We merge with traffic on South Padre Island Drive. I enjoy the blazing sunset as we cross the JFK Bridge. When we arrive at Sushi Lucky at seven, the place is empty. We pick a table and sit down. Garrick takes off his jacket and hangs it on the chair next to him. The waitress comes over and gives us menus.
“Why don’t you order for us,” Garrick suggests.
I smile. “Sure.” I open the menu and scan the sushi rolls. Most people frequent this place for the authenticity of the food, not the service. After ten minutes, I signal for the waitress. She comes back.
“We’ll have nigiri, hirame, a Fulton Roll, and a Sushi Luck Roll.”
“Anything to drink?” she asks.
“Sake,” Garrick pipes in. “Two each, and ice water.”
The waitress nods and goes to the kitchen. The restaurant is located in a renovated house, so the atmosphere is very casual. There’s a big window next to our table and I
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