The Spark Between Us by Stacy Travis

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sarah

I inhaledthe scent of garlic and meatballs in the tiny Italian restaurant, noticing that every table for two was filled.

We stood at the front of a dark room painted to look like an outdoor street in Venice, with frescoes on facing walls painted to look like two-story homes. The faux windows had real windowsills with potted ivy spilling out, and lanterns hung like streetlamps. There were even clotheslines with laundry strung from one balcony to another and a starry night sky painted on the ceiling.

While we waited, I watched two different servers bustle by with plates of pasta with clams and shrimp scampi that smelled amazing. The growl of my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten much for lunch.

“This place is popular.” I wrapped my arms around Braden’s waist, bracing myself for the host to tell us they had no space for two people who had the poor judgement to show up without a reservation. Wearing a body-hugging black sweater and rubbing a hand over his dark goatee, the host was on the phone, telling someone there was no chance of getting a table.

“The food’s decent,” Braden said, loudly enough for the host to overhear when he hung up the phone. He pinned Braden with a scowling stare, and I expected him to snub us after that review.

Instead, he cocked his head at us before yanking Braden in for a hug, clapping him on the back. “Bastard, what’s it take to get you in here more regularly? It’s been like six months, you jerk.”

Braden laughed and apologized. “I worked a bunch of overtime this year . . . you know how it is, shit gets in the way . . . but I’m here now, and I brought a friend, so you need to behave. Alex, this is Sarah.”

He greeted me with the same hug as he gave Braden without the clap on the back. Instead, he kissed my cheek. “Pleasure, Sarah. Welcome to my gin joint, though I don’t sell gin—just pasta. And Braden’s wine. Which I get at a deep discount.”

“Funny. Price just went up for you.”

Alex showed us to an empty table I hadn’t noticed in a nook at the back. He promptly dropped a bottle of red wine on our table and handed Braden a wine opener. “I’d do the whole sommelier thing, but I know you don’t need me to tell you about your own wine.”

“Dude, it’s your restaurant. You could at least open the bottle. I am a paying customer.”

“Since when?”

Their banter continued as Alex opened the bottle, and Braden rolled the cork through his fingers while waiting for Alex to pour a taste into a glass. “I assume you’d like the lady to do the tasting since you don’t know shit about wine,” Alex laughed, sliding the glass over to me.

Braden rolled his eyes. “She should taste it, and you should go fuck yourself.”

Not knowing much about wine myself, I tasted and nodded that it met with my approval, but as soon as Alex left us alone, I admitted I was out of my depth. “Gotta be honest here, pretty much all I know about wine is that it tastes good.”

Braden lifted his glass and the muscles in his forearm flexed. That was enough to distract me from anything he might want to tell me about wine. “You don’t need to know much more than that. It’s all about the taste, whether you get all artsy and describe cherry overtones and floral notes and oak from the barrel or you just say you like it—same difference.”

“Awesome. I’m relieved to know I don’t need to acquire any knowledge to enjoy it. And I am enjoying it, by the way. It’s delish.”

“That doesn’t sound at all like you. You’re a knowledge sponge.”

“I know. I like that it doesn’t annoy you that I’m always asking questions.”

“Annoy me? I’m into it. Genuine curiosity is a turn-on.” He grabbed my hand under the table and gave it a squeeze before excusing himself to go to the bathroom.

While he was gone, I leaned back in my chair and sipped some wine from my glass, trying to suss out hints of fruity something or other and failing. I must have been concentrating pretty hard because Alex looked at me and laughed on his way out of the kitchen.

“You look like you’re working hard at something,” he said, patting my arm.

“Trying to taste overtones or whatever in the wine. I’m still just tasting grapes.”

Alex grabbed the bottle from our table and examined the label. Then he pulled out his phone and tapped and swiped a few times. “Okay, here. Tell Braden you taste currant, clove, and coffee. You’ll blow his mind.”

I laughed. “Thank you. Will do.” I took another sip, concentrating on the new flavor suggestions, swirling the wine on my tongue.

Alex waited for me to assess it. “Well?”

I shook my head. “It’s hopeless. I still taste grapes. But it’s good to know what I’m supposed to be tasting. Thanks for the tip.”

“Don’t mention it.” He lingered, his head tilted to the side like he was deciding whether or not to say what was on his mind. “He’s a good guy. So how long have you two been together?”

I’d never been short on things to say. Teaching gave me the ability to think on my feet. But Alex’s question made me stammer. “Oh, we’re . . . it’s just . . . we’re friends.”

Alex huffed a laugh. “You sure you don’t want to phone a friend on that one? Final answer?”

“Yeah. I’m sure. We’re roommates.”

Alex shook his head. “Oh. Okay, well, good on you. That sounds like nice arrangement for you both.” He looked at me again with his head to the side, so I waited for the rest. “Just as long as you’re aware your roommate is completely in love with you, then great.”

“He’s not—”

“Are you harassing my dinner companion?” Braden clapped Alex on the shoulder and slipped back into his seat.

Alex shrugged. “Naw, just talking to your roommate about wine.”

I didn’t hear their small talk after that because my brain was still back on Alex’s assertion that Braden was in love with me. Which was not true. Alex had misinterpreted. Braden was no more in love with me than I was with him, and given my short stint in Carolwood and my career objectives back in Berkeley, Braden and I were a temporary amusement. No emotions allowed.

And yet … I couldn’t help trying the love concept on for size. Okay, not love, not yet. But maybe Braden did feel something for me. And maybe, if I was honest with myself, I felt more than something for him.

The idea both excited and terrified me. I did have a relationship plan, and it didn’t make sense to start something now. Or here.

“Well, thanks for keeping her company. Now go bother someone else so I can have her to myself.” He picked up my hand again, this time lacing our fingers together and resting them on the tablecloth. Leaning in, he fixed me with his eyes, burning and possessive, melding with mine like we shared a single thought.

I pushed my worrisome thoughts away for now. Braden reached for my chin with his other hand and kissed me softly. Then more deeply.

By the time our entrees came, I wasn’t sure if we were roommates or something else entirely. Maybe Alex was right. Or maybe I just wanted him to be.

Feeling something for a commitment-phobic man scared me more than the idea that aluminum might not be the optimal material for welding with lasers.