Far from disgusted, Jude responds instantly: “That’s happened! That’s really happened to me before!”

“Noo.”

“Right hand to God, when they’re running it’s like they can’t hold it in! And then it makes a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ like a car engine burst.”

He slaps his hand on the table, and they’re both laughing so hard the other customers look over.

So far, this date can be summed up thusly: floor cheese and farts.

Huh. Well, okay. Maybe they needed a silly icebreaker after the awkwardness of their first date, and now they can move on to, shall we say, less flatulence-based conversation. Props to Jude for being so willing to go with the flow. His laughter sounds genuine, too, and since Bree’s facing me, I can see how pleased she is that they’re connecting.

Jude truly is a saint. A handsome, kind, witty saint. Maybe the “rat-a-tat-tat” sound effect wasn’t witty per se, but I like to think he’s overlooking all of Bree’s behavior because of our—I mean, her—messages the last few weeks. He’s willing to put in the extra mile to make her happy, because he thinks I’m—I mean she’s—worth it for the banter burning up our keyboards.

They move on to discussing Bree’s job, and when their main courses arrive, their body language is easily decipherable. She’s touched his arm twice, and he’s helped the waitress clear away Bree’s old dish to make way for Bree’s new one. Thoughtful, considerate Jude.

I dig in to my kanafeh. It’s divine, but I can’t help feeling glum over their obvious enjoyment of each other.

It’s good, I remind myself. This is what you’re aiming for.

Then I hear the chilling words: “We’ll have the Ricotta Mousse with Balsamic Pepper Cherries to split, for dessert.”

No.

Jude leans across the table toward her. “Why wait for cherries when I’ve got these perfect lips right here?”

Did he just . . . refer to his own lips as perfect cherries? Or did he mean hers? If he meant his own, that’d be a bit egotistical. Unless he’s flirt-joking. Yes. That must be it. He’s being ironic. And you know, he’s not wrong. His lips are pouty-plump and would probably feel amazing gliding up and down someone’s—Oh. God.

They are kissing. They are kissing. I jump up from the table and walk swiftly past them, only to see Bree’s hand sliding up Jude’s thigh under the table!