When We Kissed by Kim Roshell

Author:Kim Roshell [Roshell, Kim]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aurora Dream Press, LLC
Published: 2018-06-17T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Simone

Why am I so freaking nervous? Mark? Nice guy. Either that, or his acting ability ranks right up there with the Rob Lowe thing he has going on. Super cute, even for an old dude. Good dresser, not too stuffy. Great sense of humor, too. Knows music from Top 40 to Classical, has a favorite in every genre. Bonus? He shares our love of movies.

He’s perfect for Aunt Katie.

I avert my gaze, feigning interest in the décor when he catches me staring at him for the fifty-leventh time. Tate’s is a far cry from this place. Morton’s is one of those upscale joints where ties are required for evening dining and the waiters practically wipe your mouth every time you take a bite. Sunday brunch is a bit less snooty, caters to the after church crowd, but not so informal jeans and t-shirt are acceptable. I’ve been to Whit’s dad’s church twice with Ashley, though that was a while ago. Members of Way to Redemption are an eclectic bunch. Some dress to the nines, while others takes that whole “come as you are” message to the most casual level.

I forgot to mention Morton’s dress code, so I sat on pins and needles for what felt like an eternity until my cavalry arrived, rocking the mess out of a pair of dark khakis and a light blue button-down, the top one undone. Tucked in, shirtsleeves rolled to just before his elbows. Cobalt blue tie loosened at the neck.

He looks completely appropriate. And hot.

So far, he’s exuding just the right balance of intelligence, confidence, and humility to not only make what I feared would be an awkward affair way more comfortable, he’s also kept Aunt Katie and Mark engaged in steady conversation, leaving me free to shake the anxiety. Sort of.

I release the vice I locked his fingers in underneath the table the moment he sat, exhaling for what feels like the first time in hours. I’ve barely touched my food, and after almost two and a half days of next to nothing staying down, I’m freaking starved. My stomach cares nothing about my embarrassment, grumbling noisily in displeasure over the way I’ve so carelessly let some of the whipped cream melt off of the fluffy Belgian waffle awaiting my attention. I unroll the white linen napkin in search of a fork. I’m all set to dig in.

Figures Mark would choose this very second to turn his vibrant gaze in my direction. Once again my stomach dips. The tiniest of gasps slips out between my lips. Can’t be helped. Hot guy on my right, hot guy across from me.

“Kate tells me you want to be a social worker.”

Dang. What other deets has Aunt Katie shared? The guy’s confessed to sharing my love of breakfast foods—before I placed an order, mind you—asked Whit if he’d like to join us for another trip to the zoo, of all places, then offered to repair the hinge on my closet door because he’d heard it’s been giving me some issues.

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