8. Dexter

My fingers drum on the Formica table top as I scan the faces through the window of the Italian restaurant that borders the town square. Fuck it. I pick up my phone for what must be the hundredth time. 7:16.

She’s late.

I resist the urge to call or text. Hope might be one of those people who are always late. Or maybe she’s not coming. She noticed the dirt under my fingernails, or I crushed her hand so badly she had to go the emergency room and was too polite to say.

I run my sweaty palms over my jeans. It’s fucking hot in here, and someone should open a window or put the goddamn air conditioning on.

I pick up my phone. 7:17.

Fuck. She’s not coming. I should leave. I push my chair back just as the door to the restaurant opens.

Hope stalks in wearing a black dress with a floral print that shows off the incredible swell of her breasts and a flustered look. She scans the restaurant, and when her gaze rests on me my goddamn stomach does a double flip flop.

“Sorry,” she mouths.

The waitress leads her over, and she gives me an apologetic smile as she slides into the chair opposite mine.

“I couldn’t get away, and I didn’t have time to do my makeup properly or my hair.”

She runs a hand over her wayward curls that tumble over her shoulders like a chocolate waterfall.

“You look fine,” I say. “I mean, beautiful. You look beautiful.”

I’m a dumbass. Fine? You don’t tell a woman she looks fine. Especially when she does look fucking beautiful.

“You don’t need makeup. Your face is… good. I mean, perfect. You’ve got a…a perfect face.”

She gives me a lopsided smile and I run a hand over my beard, wishing I could rewind time and do the last few minutes again. A perfect fucking face? I suck at giving compliments.

But Hope just giggles. “I like your face too.”

She’s laughing at me, and that makes me laugh too.

“Sorry. I’m fucking terrible at this.”

Luckily the waitress comes over at that moment and saves me from digging myself further into a hole.

We order our meals and drinks. Hope orders a soda and I order a beer; I need a drink to calm my heartbeat that’s thundering against my chest.

There’s a caddy in the middle of the table holding a drinks menu and sauce bottles, and I push it to the side of the table so I can see Hope better and angle my chair so my good ear is toward her. I’m partially deaf in my left ear thanks to being an idiot while I was in the army, and I don’t want to miss a moment of our conversation.

“I’m sorry about earlier today…”

She cuts off my apology with a wave of the hand. “Don’t be. I’m the one who ran. Sorry, it was just too much.”

Fuck. I’m moving too fast for her. But my feelings for this woman are so strong and overwhelming, and I don’t know how long we’ve got together.

“When do you leave town?”

“Monday. I’m just here for a long weekend.”

The drinks arrive, and I take a long cool slug of beer.

“For the craft fair?”

She mumbles a response, and her eyes dart away, and she exclaims as they rest on a picture hanging on the restaurant wall, “You ever been to Rome? I’d love to see Italy one day.”

It’s a blatant subject change, which makes me wonder what she’s hiding. There’s no craft fair this weekend, so why is Hope lying to me?

But at least she’s here, so I push the uneasiness out of the way and talk about Italy and Europe and all the places we’d like to visit while avoiding the big questions.

“I didn’t know you grew up in foster care.”

We’ve finished the main course, and I’m watching Hope scoop delicate spoonfuls of strawberry gelato into her mouth while trying not to stare at her lips and ignoring the ache in my dick from the semi I’ve had ever since she walked into the restaurant.

I drag my gaze away from her lips and fiddle with my napkin.

“It’s not something I really talk about.”

She sits back in her chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

I shake my head quickly, not wanting her to feel bad.

“I don’t mind talking about it with you. I just don’t go around announcing it, you know.”

She watches me with curious eyes, and it’s true. I don’t mind talking to Hope about this stuff. It feels safe. It’s nice talking to her.

“I never knew my dad, and my mom didn’t know how to look after me. I was taken into care at six years old. It’s hard to get adopted at that age, so I stayed in foster care until I aged out of the system.”

“I’m sorry.”

I shrug. “Don’t be. I didn’t know any different. I went straight into the army at seventeen. That’s where I trained in demolition. It was a good outlet for an angry kid.”

“I lost my mom when I was eight,” she says softly.

“Ah shit. I’m sorry, Hope.”

I take her hand across the table, and she tells me about losing her mother. A tear trickles down her cheek, and I lean across to swipe it away.

I want to take the pain away and make it better. I want to take all her tears.

“At least we had Dad. He stepped up. I didn’t realize it at the time, but he would have been going through his own grief and then having to raise two girls.” Her eyes light up when she speaks about her father. “He cut his work hours back so he’d be there every night to read to us before bed. It meant we had less money, but he took us for ice cream on the weekends and made sure we kept doing our dance classes and other activities. He really was the best dad. He was the one who would take me to the haberdashery store in town. He encouraged my interest in crafting. I’ve got him to thank for giving me the confidence to set up my online store.”

I rub my thumbs over her hands, trying to give this woman some comfort. I never had any of that. I never had a father. It sounds like a big job and probably one I’ll never be qualified to do.

By the time we finish talking, the restaurant is empty and the waitress is sweeping the floor and giving me a pointed look.

“Time to get out of here.”

I put my hand on the small of Hope’s back as I lead her out of the restaurant. She leans into my touch, and I resist the urge to slide my hand down to her ass.

Sharing each other’s losses makes me feel closer to her than I ever have before. The square is busy with Saturday night drinkers and I long for more time with her, for some privacy.

We walk to her car, and as we pass an alleyway, I grab her hand and pull her into it. She gasps, and her eyes go wide.

“Ah shit.” I’ve done it again. I’ve scared the shit out of her with my blundering caveman ways. “I don’t mean to scare you. I just want to kiss you somewhere private where the entire God damn town can’t see.”

She giggles and leans against the brick wall of the alley. The cobblestone path leads to boutique shops, and there’s an orange glow coming from a street light that casts her face in shadowy contours.

“You don’t scare me, Dexter.”

“Don’t I?” I put my hands on either side of her on the wall, trapping her between them, and give a mock growl. “How about now?”

Her eyes dance in the dim light and her head tilts back as she laughs, exposing the pale skin of her neck.

I press my lips to the skin of her throat, and the laugh turns to a moan. Fuck, she’s so responsive and sexy. My mouth moves upwards to find hers and this time I’m gentle, giving her the chance to leave if she wants to.

“Is this too much too soon?”

She shakes her head, and her hips push against mine. “It’s not enough.”