As she passes me inside, her shoulder brushes mine. I have to fight against the urge to grab her and pin her against the wall with a searing kiss. She’s so strikingly beautiful, with her dark hair hanging long down her back, the silky strands tempting me to run my fingers through them. Of course, she’s wearing my favorite color on her, too—a royal-purple tank top that brightens the hue of her eyes and dark wash jeans. As her hips sway on her way into the restaurant, I know she’s intentionally made herself hard to resist.

Three months with this woman, and every day I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.

“We’re not staying here?” she asks over her shoulder. “Where are we going?”

“I thought we could take our food to a park nearby. Set up a picnic. Maybe read a little.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, but I surreptitiously rub my sweaty palms against my jeans.

Scarlett joked about me trying to impress her, but every date I’ve planned so far has been carefully crafted around something I think she might like. She’s not the type to enjoy large crowds or loud spaces—I gathered that from the night we met. Most of the time she spends on her own has something to do with her writing, whether she’s drafting or editing or working with her critique partners. JMP has her slated for a small press tour with the possibility of expanding it when her book releases, so some of her time has been spent shopping for outfits with her roommates. I know she’s nervous about all of that, but she doesn’t have anything to be worried about. Her book is fantastic, and even though she describes herself as painfully introverted, she lights up a room when she’s talking about her work.

So far, when I’ve planned dates for us, I’ve been careful to avoid things she doesn’t enjoy but even more attentive about what she likes. Just the other day, she was bemoaning the fact that since she signed her deal, she doesn’t have any time to read. I grabbed the book that has been sitting on her nightstand for weeks, hoping she wouldn’t miss it if it was gone for a few days, and planned this afternoon for her to unwind.

Scarlett turns to face me, pouting. “You should have told me. I don’t have my book.”

I wink at her and look up at the menu hanging above the cashier. “Let’s order.”

“What are you up to?” She sounds skeptical, but I don’t look at her. If I do, I’m likely to spill all my deepest, darkest secrets, and not just the fact that I have her book in my backpack.

“Trying to impress you,” I say simply. “Now, what kind of tacos do you like?”