Charlotte Thompson. Virgin. On her first date. With me.
No pressure.
"This is too much, Peter," she finally said.
But I heard what she really meant. Not too expensive or too fancy. She meant too much effort. Too much care. Too much of someone actually thinking about what would make her happy.
"It's exactly enough." I pulled out her chair for her. "Sit. Drink wine. Let me take care of you for one night."
She sat. Looked up at me with those soft brown eyes—and I saw it. The wonder. The disbelief. The tiny part of her that couldn't quite accept that someone had done this for her.
"You don't have to take care of me."
"I know." I took my own seat across from her. "I want to."
Her first date.
The sommelier appeared moments later—a distinguished man with silver hair and the kind of accent that suggested he'd been born in a vineyard and raised by grapes. He launched into an explanation of their wine selection that was half poetry, half chemistry lecture.
