Page 16 of Ready, Willing and Abel

“Nah, don’t short change yourself. You’re pretty damn amazing, Esme. If anything, I’m the one who should be embarrassed about what I contribute to society.”

“Entertainment. Escapism. Hope.”

“Hope?” he asks.

“Well, yeah. I mean, if it’s a good movie with a happy ending. Not like a disaster movie. Those aren’t very hopeful.”

He laughs. “I guess not.” He pulls his car into a parking spot at the front of Gator’s as if they’ve been holding it just for us.

For all I know, they did. The powers of a movie star are probably far-reaching.

He helps me out of the car, then threads our fingers together. I chide my heart for getting excited and, well, hopeful. This is all for pretend. Even if he has an uncanny ability for making me feel like he’s really into me.

We’re led to our table, which is in a quiet section of the restaurant. A corner booth that allows us to sit squished together.

Zydeco music plays in the background, and the rich aroma of roux, seafood, and fried goodness fills the air.

My stomach growls in response.

He grins at me. “Hungry?”

I lick my lips and nod.

His eyes drop to my mouth. “Me too.”

Why does that sound so sexy? Ugh, probably because it’s him. Abel Cartwright. He’s a sex symbol, for Pete’s sake. Whoever the hell Pete is. Everything he does is probably sexy.

Well, except maybe falling into a cactus.

That makes me giggle.

His hand slides onto my knee. It’s over my dress, but still, the touch feels intimate and intensely erotic.

“What are you laughing about?” he asks.

“I was thinking that you’re incredibly sexy, and then reminding myself that you’re an actual real-life sex symbol. Then I remembered you falling into the cactus.”

He laughs. It’s a deep, hearty, and real belly laugh that somehow lights up all of the erogenous parts of me.

“Keeping me humble, I see.”

“It was an interesting way to meet someone for the first time,” I say.

“Our meet cute,” he says.

“That’s a romance novel term.”

“It actually originated in a movie from the late thirties. Bluebeard’s Eighth Wife. The director was German and not a native English speaker, so he got the words turned around. And it stuck.”

“Wowing me with your secret Hollywood information. Nice.”

He laughs, and I’m struck by the little lines that fan out from his mouth. “Actually, I googled it once because I was curious.”

This man is going to break my heart. And I’m going to let him because I’m not missing a second of this relationship. Even if it is only for appearances.

We order and make it through appetizers, talking like we’ve known each other for years. It’s the easiest first date I’ve ever been on. And doesn’t even feel like a first date, but rather like it’s just something that’s right between us.

“So when did you recognize me?” he asks.