The Best is Yet to Come

Twenty Six: Noah

There's no way I'm letting this girl out of my sight anytime soon.

It's dusk by the time we make it out of the store. The sun has already set, the street lamps casting a warm glow across the sidewalk. The large white box is positioned awkwardly in my arms as I look over at her.

"Are you hungry?" I ask and she pats her belly as if to check.

"Yep," she answers with a smile.

"Italian?" I suggest, picturing a small restaurant I think she'd like.

"Always," she answers with a chuckle.

"I know of a nice bistro a short drive from here. I doubt their lasagna is as good as yours but it's worth a try." I give her a wink and she flushes. I'll never get tired of making her blush. "Did you drive here?" I ask and she shakes her head no.

"Follow me, then," I say and lead her to my parked car across the street. Emma's eyes widen a bit when I unlock the doors to my black Lexus.

"Wow," She says, "I didn't realize you had so much money." She doesn't sound judgmental, just surprised. She opens the passenger door, sticking her head inside to examine the interior before seating herself. I place her boxed dress in the back seat and hop in the drivers side.

"I don't have a lot of money," I explain, "My family does."

"And what do they do exactly?" she asks, running her fingers along the leather seats. I put the address of the restaurant into the GPS on the dash.

"My family has lived in this town for generations. Thomas Dean, my great-great-great grandfather helped build the foundations of the town with the other settlers. As a result, he owned a few of the buildings. Over time, generations of Deans have bought and sold property in town, resulting in the property business my family runs today. I would say the Dean Family owns about 3/4 of the town now," I explain. I'm surprised she doesn't know this already. She really must not get out much.

"And is that what you'll do? Help run the family business?" Of course she would ask me that.

I look over at her. Pieces of her hair have fallen out of her bun and lay gently against her neck. She looks so innocent. So I decide to crack open my heart just a little, "It's what I'm supposed to do; what I was raised to do."

"But you don't want that," Emma says, not as a question, but as a statement.

"No," I respond quietly, "I don't like what it's done to my family. I don't like that I don't have a choice, that I'm expected to be the next Dean to increase the family fortune." I force myself to relax my hands, which have turned pale from wrapping tightly around the steering wheel. Emma doesn't ask any more, clearly able to recognize I was getting upset.

We drive the rest of the way in silence, not out of awkwardness but from a mutual understanding. I needed to clear my head. I never think about these things for a reason.

I pull into the parking lot of the restaurant, and Emma smiles brightly when she sees the balcony cascading in twinkly lights.

"Oh, it's beautiful!" she awes. The parking lot is full of cars and I have difficulty finding a spot. Thankfully, I find an empty space on the street and carefully ease into a parallel park. Emma waits as I open the door for her, stepping out into the cool evening. I lead her to the door, and follow her into the dim restaurant. The smell is overwhelming and immediately my mouth is watering.

The hostess greets us as we enter and, upon my request, leads us to a balcony table. I'm thankful that my family owns this restaurant as well, or we'd certainly be waiting for quite a while. I avoid the glares of half a dozen couples sitting in the waiting area as I walk beside Emma up the winding staircase leading to the balcony.

A small wrought iron table draped in white cloth waits for us and we take our seats by the edge of the balcony. Emma's eyes shimmer as she takes in the sight above us; thousands of twinkly lights and intricate vines hang over our heads. She looks thoroughly dazzled and I'm proud of myself.

A waiter comes by to take our drinks and drops off water and a basket. Emma's eyes glitter excitedly at the sight of the bread and I have to stifle back a laugh.

"So, how was work today?" I ask, taking a sip of my water. She's already started buttering her roll and I can't help but think she's absolutely adorable. My heart swells and I feel a familiar warmth spread through my chest. Is this what this is supposed to feel like?

I reach across the table to take her hand just because I can't bear not to be touching her. I think I've interrupted her bread-eating but it doesn't look like she minds; her eyes glimmer in the light, watching me from across the table. We stare at each other for a minute, lost, until she blinks.

"Huh?" She asks me, her cheeks rosy once again.

I chuckle, "Work?"

"Oh! Great. I trained a new hire today, Liam. I don't think he'll last long though. The vulture at the cash register might get him." Emma laughs at her own joke.

I tilt my head, confused, and she clarifies, "Sarah, our cashier."

"Ahh, yes. Sarah. Vulture seems a bit harsh though, doesn't it?" I counter.

She takes another bite of her roll with raised eyebrows, "Well, she slept with you, didn't she?"

I smirk, "Yeah, okay. Fair." I'm happy to hear the negative tone in her voice and I secretly hope she's jealous.

The waiter comes back to take our order, carrying two glasses of white wine. Emma takes a sip from her glass and I freeze when she licks the moisture from her lips. I don't think I've ever been so tempted by a woman. She has to be doing this to me on purpose. I take a large gulp of my wine in response.

"So what about you?" I ask her, trying to distract myself by listening to her talk, "What's your career plan?"

"I have absolutely no idea... but I did get a raise today!" she beams, raising her glass.

"Congratulations!" I say and tap my glass against hers in a toast.

Emma smiles, "Yeah, it was nice to feel recognized. Lord knows, I'm not used to good things happening to me." She chokes back a laugh but I can't tell if she's joking or not. I decide not to pry for details and I'm thankful when I see the waiter coming with our food. She politely thanks the server and looks lovingly at her plate.

"Thank God for the Italians," She muses and after a forkful of chicken, lets out a satisfied moan that makes me bite my tongue. I focus on my plate and take a bite of my ravioli. Yep, definitely doing this on purpose.

Trying again at my preferred form of distraction, I ask Emma more about work and take a relieved breath when she begins to talk. Thankfully, she has enough words for the two of us and I sit back and try to focus on her stories.

The following hour consists of our joyous laughter, Emma stealing four of my raviolis, and me wondering what she would taste like with traces Italian spice on her lips.