"So," he leads and then turns to me, warm eyes narrowing, corners of his lips picking up just a little bit. "Will I be in this column?"

Okay—tomato situation might be happening after all. I look away, suddenly smoldering in the tiny space of the car. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" he challenges.

I feed off the humor in his tone, using it to push my nerves away. "Yeah, that's right, maybe. I mean, we only just started the date, I need to wait and see if it's newsworthy."

He nods, pursing his lips, pretending to be very serious. I squeeze mine together to keep from laughing—I don't want to ruin the game! "So what would one need to do to be newsworthy? I've already got the fancy ride."

"And the rose," I add.

"Right, and the rose."

"No chocolates though," I gently accuse, frowning.

Patrick shakes his head, face full of remorse. "I'm clearly off my game tonight."

"Clearly," I concede. And though he's trying really hard to remain stone-faced, I hear a sharp exhale of air, the barest hint of humor escaping, and grin. "Don't worry, you could make up for it. Tell me something strange about yourself, something that would make my readers remember you."

"Hmm." He furrows his brows, thinking. "I slept with my baby blanket until I was twelve."

My heart melts picturing him as a little boy—for some reason I imagine a soft blue blanket with teddy bears on it. Ooh and maybe spaceships. Adorable! But this is too fun to let him know that. "Or how about something bad? Break any laws recently?"

"I did!" he says really animatedly.

I lean in, truthfully intrigued. "You did? What?"

He leans in too—this is top-secret information after all—whispering, "I jaywalk all the time. Really. I'm a serial jaywalker."

I press my lips together forcefully, presenting the best solemn face I can manage. "I should arrest you right now."

"Well, I imagine that would certainly make for a good column."

"So, I have your permission then?"

He holds his hands out in front of me, palms up. I search through my purse for a second before pouting. "Shoot, I must have left my handcuffs in my other bag."

"A common mistake, I'm sure."

"You have no idea," I say and roll my eyes.

He's about to answer when the car eases to a stop. "We're here," Patrick says and reaches for the door. And then, with his fingers still resting on the handle, he turns back to me, adding, "Oh, and Skylar?"

"Yeah?" I say, pulling my eyes away from the view of the fountain out my window. Let's be honest, his face is way more interesting anyway.

"You forgot to mention a kiss," he murmurs, vision dropping to my lips before returning to my eyes.

"What about it?" I whisper, a little entranced—caught in the force of his gaze, the heat of it.

"I think it'll make our date newsworthy." And then he's gone, opening the door and stepping out of the car.

My imagination takes over and instead of doing things like, I don't know, following, I'm picturing what it would be like to kiss him. To have those strong arms wrapped around me, pulling me close. To have those soft lips tease mine, pulling and pushing, slipping down to my throat, over to the soft spot below my ear, down a little more—

My face slams against the seat.

Ow.

I adjust, sitting up and rubbing my cheek, when bam! Realization hits.

I fell over.

I actually got so mesmerized just thinking about kissing him that I fell over…inside of a car. How is that even possible? My entire body still tingles from the imaginary kiss. And I have to admit—I'm a little nervous how I'll react if it happens in real life. Well, not if, when. Definitely when. Cue the heart palpitations!

"Uh, Skylar? You coming?" Patrick teases.

Shoot! Did he see me?

"Sorry!" I scramble to follow, mind not quite working right, and I bump my head on the door on my way out.

Ow. Again.

More lightheadedness is so not what I need right now.

Patrick offers his hand and I take it thankfully, leaning on him while my racing thoughts clear. We make our way to the elevator, up a whole lot of floors, and arrive at the restaurant. To my amazement, my conversational skills return and we chitchat about nonsense until we're led to our table.

The sight takes my breath away.

Oh, yeah. This date is definitely newsworthy.

Our table rests right next to a floor-to-ceiling window, and I don't think I've ever seen New York look more beautiful than it does right now. The sun just finished setting, illuminating a midnight sky with soft aquamarine light. Far above, the stars flicker to life, brightening with each passing second, and farther down, countless windows across the horizon resemble floating lanterns against the deepening dark. The park is a forest shrouded in bottomless evergreen, vivified every so often by the orange glow of a streetlight. From so high up, the city looks quieter, more peaceful.

"Patrick," I say, sighing, because I can't find any other words.

He pulls my seat out and for the first time I notice the candles in the center of the table. They're always there, I'm sure, but right now it just seems like another thing to add to the growing list of romance. And bubbling beside the flame, shimmering like liquid gold, are two glasses of champagne. Across the soft light, I meet his eyes, warm brown at the center then brightening to dazzling emerald, and I get the sense that though he's been to the restaurant a dozen times before, this time might be different, might be special for him too. We clink our glasses, neither bothering to look away. A few minutes later, we're interrupted by a waiter.

"Your first course," he says and begins describing some sort of tuna tartare dish. I look down at the spoonful of tiny maroon cubes garnished with vegetables I don’t recognize because they're in miniscule shavings.

"Um," I murmur, looking up. "I don’t think these are ours. We haven't even seen a menu yet."

He just looks at me like I'm insane.

"Thank you," Patrick interjects, dismissing him before turning an amused smile on me. "I forgot you've never been here. There's an a la carte menu, but the tasting menu is much better. Seven courses and I ordered the wine pairings too. Speaking of…"

I turn just as two quarter-filled glasses of wine are set on the table, I don't catch the full description—I'm too focused on trying to discern what food is about to go in my mouth—but I recognize the words sauvignon blanc. The wine, at least, I know I'll like.

Without hesitation, Patrick picks up his spoon and polishes off the food in one bite, taking a small sip of wine to wash it down.

I swallow, a slight sliver of dread tickling my throat, and glance back at my plate, wondering if Cinderella had to deal with raw fish for her prince charming. Somehow, I doubt it. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm all for trying new foods, but I'm more of a burger and fries, spaghetti and meatballs, take-out Chinese sort of girl.

Laughter pulls my eyes away from the food. It’s Patrick, watching me watch my plate. "Aren't you going to eat it?"

"Oh, sure," I reply, reaching for the spoon, trying to act braver than I feel. "I just like to get the full aesthetic experience before I eat."

He raises his eyebrows, grin deepening as I bring the spoon to my lips.

One.

Two.

Three.

I open and swallow the contents.

Not bad, but not really my favorite either. It's a little…slimy. I reach for my wine, downing it in one sip, before looking up at Patrick with a sort of apologetic expression. And the rest of dinner passes in a somewhat similar fashion.