A rush of relief leaves her. No doubt, she didn’t plan on that little outburst. “Thank you. Now, what can I get you?”

Our conversation turns more professional as she rattles off the lunch specials. We order, and she shoots me a smile before scurrying away.

“I can’t believe you did that,” I comment, wrapping my fingers around the stem of my glass.

“And I can’t believe you did that,” he replies.

“Touché.” I smile. “You wanted to make things awkward, and I needed to up the ante.”

“You sure did.” He takes a long gulp of his water. “You working tonight?”

“Nope.” I moan at the first sip of the sugary mimosa. It’s been a while since I’ve had one. I tend to save them for days I’m nursing massive hangovers or for weddings. “We both have the night off.”

“How’d you know I have the night off?” He tilts his head to the side and chews on his lower lip.

“The schedule.”

He waggles his finger at me. “My little stalker, you.”

“You love it.”

“Any big plans tonight?”

I ignore the chatter around us and focus on Lincoln. “Possibly.”

“Like what?”

“Sex.” I lick the rim of my glass in a failed attempt to appear seductive. Yeah, I most likely look like a baby licking a toy. “Lots and lots of sex.”

Unfortunately, my response doesn’t choke him up as I hoped. Lincoln is hard to rile up, to my surprise, and my humor never shocks him.

He scoffs, “Bullshit. My money is on you staying home, watching cartoons, and cuddling with a stuffed animal you’ve had since you were two.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience.” I crack a smile and tap his hand. “Is that what you were doing at twenty-one, Grandpa Bartender? When did you finally break up with your baby blanket?”

He chuckles. “Nah, you got it all wrong, babe.”

“I bet it was Ninja Turtles … am I right?”

He stays quiet, fighting back a grin.

“Oh my God!” I cover my mouth to hold in a shriek of laughter. “I’m so right.”

“Wrong.” He plucks an ice cube from his water and flicks it at me. “My baby blanket—which I haven’t used in years, thank you—was Mickey Mouse.”

I thrum my fingers along the edge of the table, engrossed in this conversation like it’s a revelation as deep as how the world will end. “Do you still have it?”

He swipes his palm over his chin. “My mom probably does.”

“Ask her because I’d love to give it to our kiddos when the time comes.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Marry me. Knock me up. Whatever you’d like.” I chug my mimosa and motion toward him with it. “But not anal. I don’t do anal, prewarning.”