He holds up his hands. “You’re right. I’ll save the date talk for the date.” “Thank you.” His words sink in after half a second. “Not the date. The dinner.” “No one just goes to dinner at Vesuvio’s. It’s a date place.” “That’s where we’re going?” Thank goodness I packed my good heels. That restaurant is the fanciest a small college town like Moorbridge has to offer. I’m surprised he would spring for it, and fine, a little flattered.
