I shrug, heat crawling up my neck. We’ve talked about this before, but I’ve never shared this bit. I want to share it with Alex though, even though it’s embarrassing. “People at work, they would, they would . . . they would make comments.” I shovel in a big bite of pizza so I can focus on chewing.

It was more than comments. They would roll their eyes when I stood up to speak, or they would whisper to each other while I was speaking, or they would chat in the break room, loud enough that I could hear from my desk, about how they suffered secondhand embarrassment on my behalf every time I had to talk. Poor them.

His jaw tightens. “That’s a reflection on them, not you.”

I wave it off, uncomfortable and prickly. “It’s no big deal.” How did we start talking about me? This is supposed to be about Alex. “Enough about me. Give me more embarrassing stories. Don’t hold back.”

He laughs and I eat while he regales me with stories about tripping off the stage during a performance, barfing in the middle of his senior prom, and sitting in the wrong class his first day of college and not realizing it until it was half over.

See? This is why I want to climb him like a pole.

No, Jane. Garlic breath. Wait. Aren’t clams an aphrodisiac? Or is that oysters?

After I finish eating, we walk back up the hill to the Saloon, hand in hand.

The darkness is softened by the lights of the street, nearby windows shining with illumination. Across the street from the Saloon, Alex stops and faces me.

His eyes are dark and intent in the streetlights. I know what this means.

I clear my throat. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming to my show.” He steps closer.

I gaze up at him.

He leans down.

“Wait!” I pull back, one hand pressed to his chest. His firm, defined chest that leads down to lean hips and a trim waist.

No, Jane. Bad Jane.

“We can’t kiss. I have garlic breath.” I cover my mouth with one hand.

He smiles. “I love garlic.”

“Even garlic lovers don’t want to make out with garlic eaters. It’s one thing to have garlic on your pizza, it’s another to taste it in someone else’s mouth.”

He chuckles, but then pulls me closer.

“Hey, pickle juice!” someone yells.

Alex turns his head and I follow his gaze. It’s Leon, waving at us from the doorway of the Saloon.

“Pickle juice?” I ask out the side of my mouth.

“It’s a term of endearment,” says Alex.

“Really?”

“It comes from a drunken night when I suggested using pickle juice chasers for whiskey. It led to a naked incident involving lightsabers. Don’t ask.”

I face him. “I’m intrigued. You can’t leave me hanging on naked lightsabers.”