Chapter 7: Candlelight and Confessions
Sam pulled the restaurant door open and the smell hit her first.
Garlic. Basil. Simmering tomatoes. Something buttery and warm that made her mouth water before she'd even seen a menu. The whole place was tiny—maybe twelve tables squeezed into a space that should have held eight—and every single one was lit by a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle, the wax dripping down the glass like stalactites.
Zoe stopped just inside the doorway, letting it wash over her.
"This is... a lot," she said.
Sam laughed, low and warm. "Good a lot?"
"I don't know yet. Ask me after I eat."
He led her toward a corner table, his hand firm on the small of her back. The contact burned through her sweater, and she had to resist the urge to lean into him, to press herself against his side right there in front of the hostess and the couple at the bar and everyone.
The table was tucked against a wall, half-hidden behind a potted fig tree that had seen better days. Sam pulled out her chair. Zoe sat.
He took the seat across from her, and the candlelight caught his face—all those sharp angles and bright eyes, the little scar on his jaw from when he'd fallen off his bike in eleventh grade.
"Have you been here before?" she asked.
"Once. With my parents. It was weird."
"Weird how?"
"They kept trying to set me up with the waitress."
Zoe snorted. "Did it work?"
"She was thirty-five and married."
"So?"
"So I was seventeen and terrified." Sam picked up his menu, but his eyes stayed on her. "You're really pretty tonight."
Her face heated. "I'm wearing a sweater."
"I know."
"Same sweater I've worn like a hundred times."
"I know."
"So what's different?"
Sam set the menu down. "You're looking at me different."
She didn't have a response for that. Because he was right. Her whole body felt lit up, every nerve ending tuned to his frequency. Maybe it was the candlelight, or the wine she hadn't even ordered yet, or the fact that she'd spent the entire afternoon replaying the sound he made when he came in her mouth.
Probably that last one.
A waiter appeared—young, maybe their age, with a thick mustache that looked like it was trying too hard. He took their drink order and disappeared.
"Red or white?" Sam asked.
"I don't know. I usually just drink whatever's cheapest."
"Then we're getting the good stuff."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "Let me."
The touch was light. Accidental. But the current that ran up her arm was anything but. She felt it in her chest, her stomach, the place between her legs that had been aching all day.
"Okay," she said, voice smaller than she meant it to be.
The wine came. The pasta came. And somewhere between the first bite of gnocchi and the second glass of Chianti, the conversation found its rhythm—the same rhythm they'd always had, joking and teasing and finishing each other's sentences, except now every brush of his hand against hers sent a jolt through her.
Every accidental touch of their feet under the table made her breath catch.
Every time he looked at her—really looked, not just glanced—she felt like she was going to combust.
"You're doing it again," she said, halfway through her second helping.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're—" She gestured vaguely with her fork. "I don't know. Cataloging me."
Sam set down his fork. "I'm not cataloging. I'm memorizing."
Zoe's fork stopped halfway to her mouth. "What's the difference?"
"Cataloging is for books. Memorizing is for things you don't want to forget."
The words hung there, heavy and warm, and Zoe felt her throat close up.
"That's very romantic for a guy who once told me I had the taste buds of a raccoon."
Sam grinned. "You ate pizza out of a dumpster."
"It was a dare!"
"It was still disgusting."
"You dared me!"
"And you did it!" He was laughing now, that goofy, unfiltered laugh that made him look like the sixteen-year-old she'd fallen for. "I've never been more horrified in my life."
"You held my hair back while I threw up."
"Best friend duties."
The word landed wrong. Best friend. It sat on the table between them like a third plate, and Zoe watched Sam's face change—the laugh fading, something softer taking its place.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Best friend."
The waiter cleared their plates. The dessert menu appeared. Zoe barely glanced at it.
Sam ordered tiramisu. She ordered panna cotta. They shared both.
Halfway through, he reached across the table and took her hand. Not a brush this time. Not accidental. His fingers wrapped around hers, warm and sure, and he held on like he was afraid she might disappear.
"Zoe."
She looked up. His eyes were dark in the candlelight, serious in a way she'd never seen before.
"I need to tell you something."
Her heart hammered. "Okay."
"I've been in love with you since tenth grade." He said it plainly, no hesitation. "The first day of Ms. Carlile's chemistry class. You were wearing that dumb Darth Vader t-shirt and you argued with her for ten minutes about the physics of lightsabers, and I just—" He shook his head. "I don't know. I was gone. Done. That was it for me."
Zoe couldn't breathe.
"Every girlfriend I've had since then," he continued, "every single one, was an attempt to get over you. And none of them worked. Not even close." His thumb stroked her knuckles, slow and deliberate. "I've spent six years trying to convince myself that we were just friends. That I was imagining it. That you didn't feel the same way."
Her eyes were stinging. She blinked hard, but it didn't help.
"But last night—" His voice caught. "Last night you told me you thought about me. You said you touched yourself thinking about me. And I just... I need to know if that was real. If this is real. Because I can't do casual. Not with you. Not again."
The words sat there, raw and open, and Zoe felt herself cracking wide.
"It's real," she said. The words came out messy, voice thick. "It's real, Sam. It's been real since I was sixteen. I used to wear my swimsuits around you on purpose, you know that? I'd pick the tiny ones, the ones that made my ass look good, and I'd wait for you to look. And when you did, I'd pretend I didn't notice. But I noticed. I always noticed."
Sam's grip on her hand tightened.
"I've had boyfriends," she continued, "and I never went all the way with any of them. Because it wasn't them. It was you. It's always been you." A tear slipped down her cheek. "I didn't buy a black lace teddy yesterday for no reason. I bought it because I thought maybe, if you saw me in it, you'd finally—"
She stopped. Swallowed. The confession sat raw in her throat.
"I wanted you to see me," she whispered. "I wanted you to want me the way I wanted you."
Sam was quiet for a long moment. Then he lifted her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles, soft and warm.
"I see you," he said. "I've always seen you."
The restaurant felt smaller now. Warmer. The candle flickered between them, casting shadows that danced across his face, and Zoe thought she might actually be dreaming.
"Want to get out of here?" he asked, voice low.
She nodded.
They didn't run to the car. They walked. Hands linked. The night air was cool on her flushed skin, and she felt every step in her whole body—the anticipation building in her chest, her stomach, the space between her thighs.
Sam unlocked his car—a beat-up Civic that smelled like cedar and old coffee—and opened the passenger door for her.
"You're being very gentlemanly," she said, climbing in.
"I'm trying."
"Trying for what?"
He leaned down, one hand on the door frame, his face inches from hers. "Trying to make it aaay from here before I do something we'll both regret in a parking lot."
Her breath caught. "What if I don't want to wait?"
Sam's eyes darkened. "Then I guess we're not waiting."
He closed the door. Walked around the car. Got in. And when he started the engine, Zoe reached over and rested her hand on his thigh—high enough to make the point, low enough to keep him guessing.
He glanced at her. She smiled.
"Drive," she said.
He drove.