21. Alana

TWENTY-ONE

Alana

What if someone you never met,

someone you never saw,

someone you never knew

was the only someone for you?

~ Sleepless in Seattle

I ’m in shock.

“ You’re Wordivore?”

He laughs this low, mellow laugh and it fills me like helium.

“Statistical probability? … One in infinity,” he says with a look of awe that I’m sure mirrors my own.

“On call?” I ask.

His face forms a mask of confusion for a moment. Then his eyes light up with the memory of our online conversation.

“My remote work as a marine biology consultant. I work on call. I forget if I explained the structure of my job when you asked me that day on Joel’s boat. I leave the island for a few days a week, sometimes longer. It’s unpredictable, but steady. I consult to various organizations, and the government at times. And, when I’m free, I also tote celebrities back and forth to and from the mainland … among other odd jobs.” He winks.

I smile. I can’t stop smiling. “Celebrities? Like who?”

“Oh, I’m not at liberty to say. I signed an NDA. Keeping my word to her is extremely important to me.”

“I’m sure she appreciates that more than she can say.”

“And you?” He asks as if we’re actually on a first date where we need to get to know one another. “You’re sort of like a spy?” His one brow lifts.

Neither of us have stopped smiling. My glasses sit off to the side, abandoned now that I know who he is.

“In my recent trilogy of movies.”

He chuckles. “Ah, yes. Anya Blackman. The Red Falcon.”

I smile. I forgot he was a fan. He hides it well.

The waiter approaches our table. “Are you ready to order now?”

He’s carrying two menus, but I answer him before he even sets them down.

“Yes. We’re ready.”

I turn my eyes toward Stevens.

It’s still surreal. He’s Wordivore. The man who made me feel so at ease on Joel’s boat. The one who brought me a sandwich when he knew I’d be hungry. The same man I invited to dinner at my home. The one who reads Gone With the Wind, and some book about octopi at night, in bed, wearing sexy reading glasses. He’s the one who helped me muster the courage to set a boundary with my mother. This man I’ve been flirting with online … is Stevens. Wordivore is Stevens.

Without taking my eyes off Stevens, I tip my mouth into a coy smirk. Then I ask the waiter, “Do you have anything with bolognese?”

Stevens beams. He’s so transparent and unpretentious. Comfortable. We’re both a little nervous, or maybe we’re simply adjusting to the jaw-dropping reality of all these overlaps between us. If I believed in luck or serendipity, I’d say this was destiny. Right now, I don’t know what to call it. Uncanny, for sure.

“We have a house-made bolognese that is our customers’ favorite,” The waiter explains. “You can choose the pasta you’d like it on. We make it fresh every morning and then allow it to cook all day so the flavors are rich and married like a couple in the beautiful Emilia-Romagna region of Italy.”

“I’ve been there,” I tell the waiter. “It’s lovely.”

“I’m from Dozza.”

“Dozza? With the painted wall?”

“Sì, bella donna.”

I smile at him and glance back at Stevens. His eyes scan my face, flitting from feature to feature. A soft smile turns his mouth up when our eyes meet.

“The sauce, it can go on the tagliatelle pasta,” the waiter tells me. “Or your choice, bella.”

I’m still staring at Stevens when I answer. “Le tagliatelle, per favore. E un'insalata.”

“And she speaks Italian,” Stevens says in a low voice, nearly to himself.

I smile over at him—the same smile that’s been pulling at my cheeks since I discovered his identity. “And French.”

His smile breaks open like the sun through clouds. We’re old friends who never met. It’s the oddest sensation, melding the layers together into one cohesive reality. We even have private jokes.

“And for you, sir?” the waiter asks.

“Same. Bolognese. On the pasta.”

“The tagliatelle.”

“Sure. Yes.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “Whatever she’s having.”

“So, also the salad?”

“Right. Yes. The salad, please.”

We’re a sight, I’m sure. Two people, locked onto one another so steadily that the rest of the world could blow up and we’d miss it.

“Molto bene. Very good,” the waiter says.

He offers us a selection of beverages and we make our choices, only glancing at him momentarily and then back at one another.

It’s as if looking away for too long might break the spell. Would Stevens disappear? Is he even real?

I reach out without thinking, my hand landing on Stevens’ forearm.

He slowly glances down where my fingertips touch his skin and then back up at me.

“Just checking,” I say.

“If I’m a mirage?”

“A dream, a mirage, a fugue state … you know. The usual.”

“Yeah. I get that all the time,” he jokes.

“I bet you do.”

He’s truly gorgeous. I admired him before on occasion, but he was my temporary employee. It didn’t feel appropriate to fully acknowledge his appeal then.

He raises an eyebrow.

“What? You have to know you’re attractive.”

He shakes his head, dropping his eyes toward the table as though I’ve embarrassed him. It’s adorable.

“I’m aware that I garner attention. Sometimes it’s less welcome than others.”

“Hmmm. And when is it welcome?”

I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest, grateful that our capacity for banter is alive and well. I had wondered whether seeing Wordivore in person would squash the way we so freely verbally spar with one another.

“When I find a woman desirable. Then, I don’t mind if she finds me attractive.”

He’s different in this moment. Commanding. Masculine. I’ve seen this side of him a few times as Stevens, my taxi pilot, but not so much as Wordivore. And now, it’s a heady thing, sitting across from him while he owns his attraction and calls mine out in equal measure.

If this were a real first date and the guy were being this unabashedly invested in me, I’d be sneaking to the restroom to text Brigitte for an escape plan. Stevens and I are being intimate and forward. In reality, we’re not strangers. We know one another. This date feels like a culmination, a benchmark, and a rite of passage in a relationship that has been brewing for over six months.

The air is thick between us. I lick my lips and Stevens watches me. He takes a sip of his water and then smoothly shifts the conversation away from the crackle of our mutual attraction to something more neutral and appropriate for the setting.

“So, you had a few days of interviews?”

“You really don’t follow Hollywood buzz much, do you?”

“If by not much you mean not at all, then yes. That’s true.”

I can’t explain why this delights me like it does.

“Well, I was on The Kelly Clarkson Show—with my co-star.”

“Rex Fordham?”

“Yes.”

I stuff down the memories of that interview. Kelly was delightful, but the obvious insinuation that Rex and I are together was established and never refuted. She was gracious enough to only tease us about what a beautiful couple Rex and I make. She didn’t focus on us and our relationship for longer than was needed. She’s so down to earth. I loved chatting with her if you set aside the fact that our interview probably solidified a lot of rumors.

“Do you know who Kelly Clarkson is?” I ask.

“I do. My brother sings country, so I get familiar with a lot of artists through him and his passion for that genre. Kelly was married to a country singer for a while.”

“Your brother sings country? Professionally?”

“He does paid gigs around the island and over in LA. He’s moving to Tennessee. ”

“Ahhh. Nashville. Pursuing his dreams to be a big country star?”

“No. Not exactly. He’s actually moving to join a station—a fire station—in a small town between Nashville and Knoxville. He’s a fireman.”

“Does he look like you?”

“A little, but he’s more muscular and built like a brick house, why?”

“I’m just indulging in a little fantasy. Give me a minute.”

He laughs. “Not your type. I assure you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I think you’d be better suited with a … I don’t know … a nerdy marine biologist who knows his way around the local kelp beds.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mm hmm.”

We both laugh. And then I remember. “Wait! Your brother. The one leaving the island. Only I didn’t know it was an island at the time. He’s moving away and … I’m sorry. It’s all piecing together now.”

“That’s the one. You really helped me that night. I was blindsided. But you’re right. I can visit him, and he’ll be back for visits here too.”

“It’s not the same as living on the same island, for sure. So, you actually have family suppers?”

“Once a week. And I do go to Mitzi’s Tacos weekly too.”

“Isn’t this weird?” I look into Stevens’ deep brown eyes. “Every time I remember a piece of a conversation we had, or the night you showed up at Summer’s barbecue ... the boat rides … you in the cove when Brigitte was visiting. I have to lay it down in the puzzle so it attaches to the rest of who you are to me. You’ve been more than one person in my mind for so long. I’m trying to stitch them all together.”

“Yes. It’s unusual. But, not … unfortunate.”

“Not at all,” I agree. “More like Christmas morning, when you thought you’d opened all the gifts, but then you find that last one hidden under the tree.”

He smiles at me. “And that one turns out to be the very thing you wanted all along.”

“Smooth, Stevens. Really smooth.”

“Trust me.” He smiles that half smile where the dimples form these nearly-edible lines on one side of his face. “I’m not smooth. I’m pretty … unsmooth, actually.”

“I don’t know. You’ve come up with some snappy one-liners over the time I’ve known you.”

“Online. I don’t do that in person.”

“Not even with me?”

“Maybe with you, now? But I’ll reluctantly remind you of the day we met on Joel’s boat.”

I laugh lightly. “You had your moment.”

“Not smooth.” His eyebrows lift and drop. It’s sexier than it should be.

Our salads arrive and we eat. Stevens asks me about my other interviews with the two Jimmies as Brigitte has dubbed them. I ask him about his work—my motive in asking now is so different than it had been. Before, I was curious. Now, I’m interested.

He looks at me over our plates of pasta, about halfway through the meal. “I’ve got a project I’ve been working on. It’s sort of a secret.”

“Ooooh. I love secrets.”

“I’ll have to show you sometime.”

“Is this like where a guy asks a girl to his flat to see his sketches?”

He chuckles. “Something like that. Only, you’ll be snorkeling—or diving.”

“I’d love that.”

“I thought you might.”

We finish dinner, and Stevens insists we share a tiramisu. I generally don’t eat dessert, but I can’t break that fact to him when he looks at me instead of the waiter and says, “She needs to try your tiramisu.”

When the waiter asks, “Two servings?” Stevens holds my gaze and says, “We’ll share one.”

The waiter leaves and arrives with the dessert. We stare at one another and smile the goofiest grins.

“So?” he asks cryptically before taking a bite of tiramisu and placing it in his mouth.

“So, what?”

“What’s the verdict?”

I’m so satisfied between the effects of the delicious pasta and the decadent dessert, my half-glass of wine, and the way Stevens keeps looking at me, I don’t even know if I can process his question.

“The verdict?”

He sits up and crosses his arms across his chest. “Was this a date? Or was it two friends finally connecting after months of cultivating an online relationship?”

I don’t hesitate. I’m not coy. I’ve waited too long for him already. “This was definitely a date.”

“Good to know.” His smile is soft and promising.

Stevens pays the bill and we walk out, side by side, into the cool evening air. His hand brushes my lower back. The sun has set and the sound of the waves hitting the shore provides the perfect soundtrack.

“How did you get here tonight?” he asks.

“I had one of my drivers bring me.”

“Ah, yes. Your drivers.”

“Are you mocking me?”

His face grows serious. “Not at all. You’ve earned all the drivers and cooks and cleaners and brick walls who protect you from rabid fans.”

“That’s what Brigitte says.”

“She’s right.”

“She’s also the one who told me to say yes to a date with you. ”

“She’s very right.”

The confidence oozing off him right now feels like a drug. He may think he’s awkward. And I have experienced that side of him, but he’s also incredibly strong and self-assured at times. Never cocky or arrogant. It’s a rarity. Usually when I meet men like him, they’re so full of themselves there isn’t room for another person in their self-focused universe. Not that I’ve ever met a man like Stevens. I’m quite sure I haven’t.

“What else did Brigitte tell you to do?” he asks.

“Hmmm? Oh. Nothing, besides to get my sleep when I had a big day ahead.”

He chuckles. “So, no advice on the goodnight kiss?”

“None. But I think we both knew I could make that call on my own.”

He reaches out and brushes my curls away from my face. They spring back when his fingers move away.

“Let’s grab a cart from the resort,” he suggests. “I’ll drive you home.”

My brow lifts.

“And leave you at the front door,” he adds with a wink. “No use having a driver come out when I can take you myself.”

“Where do you live?” I ask. “You’ve been inside my home. It’s only fair I know where you live.”

“Want to see it?” he offers.

“Your house?”

“It’s not much to speak of, but it’s only a few blocks from here.”

“Actually, yes. I’d love to see your house.”

He smiles at me. And with the fluidity and tenderness of a man with far more prowess than he claims to possess, he reaches down and captures my hand in his. He intertwines our fingers and begins walking down the street, past the row of shops next to Cucina.

“Let’s take the sand,” he suggests, looking down into my eyes. “Can you? In those? ”

He points down toward my sandals. I’m wearing heels.

“I can take these off and carry them,” I say. “I’d love to walk on the beach.”

Stevens surprises me when we’ve reached the small strip of sidewalk running right along the sand. He drops to one knee.

“You’re proposing?” I smile down at him. “It’s a little early for that. Don’t ya think?”

“I’m taking your heels off for you.”

“Oh.” My teasing tone is blown away on an ocean breeze. “Okay.”

Stevens taps the back of my ankle, coaxing me to lift my foot onto his thigh. I don’t know how I don’t wobble and fall over. He’s focused and gentle, sweetly caring for me in a way I’d never imagined a man could or should.

I’ve been dated, pursued, stalked … yes, even stalked. I don’t think a man has ever done anything so thoughtful and romantic before.

Stevens carefully puckers the strap of the sandal so it pops from the clasp. His fingers graze my ankle. His eyes look up to mine, but then back to his self-appointed task. He slips my sandal off my foot and hands it up to me. Then he wordlessly removes my other shoe with the same tender reverence before he stands and intertwines our fingers again. I loop the sandals over my finger on the opposite hand and we step onto the beach together.

The night is cool but not chilly. The light of the stars and moon reflect off the water. Couples dot the sand in loosely scattered silhouettes.

“Want to walk along the shore pound?” Stevens asks me.

“Won’t your legs turn into a tail if you touch the water?”

“I guess you’ll have to just wait and see.”