“Valid point,” she tells me, her voice soft, her expression thoughtful.

“Being overly jealous and controlling gets you nowhere,” I continue, warming to the subject. “It just makes you look like an asshole.”

Amelia raises her glass in the air. “Hear, hear,” she says before she takes a giant sip.

I raise my glass as well and clink it against hers. “To assholes. May they stay out of our lives as much as possible.”

“Amen,” she murmurs.

I never tear my gaze away from hers as I take another swallow of wine, this one going down a little smoother. She seems pleased with how I reacted and I feel like I won the damn lottery. I said the right thing. And fuck all if I didn’t mean it too.

I meant every damn word I said. I’m not the jealous type. Hell, if Amelia Lee was my girlfriend, I’d tell everyone I could that woman was mine. I’d be proud to show her off on my arm. I’d encourage her to go spend time with her friends, and ask her all about it the next day. That way when I want to go hang out with my friends, she won’t protest.

“You really are exactly how you present yourself, aren’t you?” she says, her eyes glowing in the dim light of the restaurant.

“What do you mean?”

“No pretense. No trying to impress me or show off,” she answers.

I sit up straighter. “I can show off if you want me to. Stop by the tree farm in the next couple of days and let me impress you with my strength.”

Amelia laughs. “See, you only want to show off because I mentioned it to you. It never occurred to you that’s part of the mating ritual.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Mating ritual? Is that what we’re doing right now?”

Her cheeks turn red and she waves a dismissive hand. “You know what I mean. You don’t feel the need to act like the big man in front of me. I like that about you.”

“I’ve got a few big man traits,” I say, my voice low and the faintest bit pervy. I can’t help myself. I may be a nice guy, but I don’t want to seem like too much of a nice guy.

She laughs even harder this time. “Ha! That was vaguely dirty.”

“I meant it as completely dirty,” I tell her, wagging my eyebrows with an exaggerated leer. I chuckle at the look she sends me.

The server chooses that moment to drop off our fried calamari at the table and we both make a grab for a piece, our fingers brushing against each other, causing a little spark to flare up—and that’s not caused by the food either. The calamari is hot, but I don’t care. I’m starving.

I dunk the piece I just grabbed in the accompanying marinara sauce and take a bite, practically moaning aloud at first taste.

“Fuckin’ delicious,” I murmur, my gaze finding hers. “I mean—”