The Frog Prince by Elle Lothlorien Page B

when Roman raises his wine glass, nor the fact that everyone at the table has done likewise. Elbow-deep in a mountainous dish of pasta salad, I scramble to find a place on the table to drop the bowl as Roman begins an elegant toast.
    “Victor Hugo once said ‘The supreme happiness in life is the conviction that we are loved– loved for ourselves, or rather, loved in spite of ourselves,’ ” he says, looking at each person at the table in turn.
    His gaze rests on me just as I get my glass in the air. Don’t drop the glass, don't drop the glass , I chant to myself.
    “May this next year bring you the very best of happiness, health and fortune,” he says with real feeling, like we’ve known each other for decades rather than days. “Happy birthday, Leigh.”
    It is easily the most touching birthday sentiment I have ever heard. I swallow hard against the palm basketball that has suddenly materialized in my throat. All eyes are on me, waiting for me to respond. I panic.
    “Amen,” I stutter. Thankfully I am drowned out by the louder, and more appropriate “hear hears” and “happy birthdays” of the impatient assembled.
    Inebriation has been known to actually improve my verbal skills, so I dump the wine down my throat like a sorority pledge at a hazing and look around for more. I decide I’ll need at least fifteen minutes of non-stop drinking before I’ll be able to wrest control of my body back from my autonomic nervous system.
    Thankfully, the topic of my birthday is now water under the bridge, and Lydia is regaling the table with a recent visit to what she still refers to as a “beauty parlor.” This gives me the opening I’m looking for and I scoot my chair back so I can make a run for the wine bottle in the kitchen.
    I freeze, half-standing, when Roman touches my hand. “Should we celebrate tomorrow?” he says in a low voice. “Do you have plans?”
    My heart suddenly feels like someone is jack-hammering out loose asphalt. I drop back into my chair and shake my head, then realize that he probably thinks I’m saying “no” to the first question. “I don’t have plans,” I clarify.
    “Would a birthday surprise be out of line?” he asks softly, his fingers wrapped lightly around mine on the table top.
    As the others begin an offshoot conversation on another topic, I decide honesty is the best way to go. “I don’t handle the unexpected well.”
    Roman smiles. “Then I won’t surprise you, I’ll just tell you where we’re going.”
    I think about it. “Won’t that ruin the fun for you?”
    “I’m having fun spending time with you,” he says. After a short pause he admits, “Okay, maybe a little bit.”
    Roman has these dark, thick lashes like the cilia on a Venus flytrap leaf. The deep blue sort of lures you in. I peek for a second or two and become trapped like a bug.
    “You can surprise me if you want,” I say. “I’ll survive it.” I would probably have continued making googly eyes at him like a middle schooler if the rest of the table hadn’t chosen that moment to suck us back into their conversation.
    “No, Leigh and I win that prize,” says Kat.
    I tear my eyes away from him. “What prize?” I say half-heartedly, my interest level an obvious zero.
    “Most interesting job.”
    I look back at Roman. There is no trace of curiosity on his face so I assume that someone has already told him, probably my cousin, Christine.
    “That’s right!” he says, leaning forward and smiling. “Sex research, right? How’d you end up doing that?”
    I take Roman’s question in stride. I knew it would only be a matter of time before he found out and, honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t bring it up on the hike. “Well, it was sort of a lateral move from doing adult films,” I joke, not bothering to screen my reply through my Creep Factor filter. This is my standard response to anyone who asks why I’m doing human sexuality research. It always gets a chuckle, and Roman doesn’t