moment. “Okay. I’ve got something. But you can’t tell anyone else.”
“You know I won’t.”
He leans forward across the table, as if he’s going to spill top-secret information.
“I hate being called Landy.”
“What?” I gasp, shocked. “But everyone calls you Landy!”
“I know,” he sighs. “Everyone calls me Landy, and I hate that name. I’ve had it since I’ve played junior hockey in Canada. It works, it makes sense, and I can’t stand it. But nobody knows that. Except for you.”
Butterflies shift in my stomach. I’m excited that he shared this with me.
“Then I don’t want to call you Landy,” I say. “What do you want me to call you?”
“Landon,” he says softly. “You can call me Landon.”
“Landon,” I repeat, thinking I like that better.
Because Landy I associate with the flashy, flirty hockey player.
Landon, I associate with me.
“My turn,” Landon says, pausing to select a piece of fish. “Is your first name Olivia?”
I shake my head. “Nope. My parents actually named me Livy. Interesting side note—I don’t have a middle name, either.”
Landon takes a bite and studies me thoughtfully. “So,” he says after he eats, “Livy Adams is it, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a sip of my bottled water. “My mom couldn’t think of a middle name she liked so I’m plain Livy Adams.”
“I wouldn’t say plain,” he says.
Ooooooooooooooooooooh!
DEFCON. I need to assign more levels.
Like DEFCON-100.
“Well, thank you,” I say, trying to contain the heat that is rising in my cheeks. “All right. Next question. Very important one. But not serious.”
Landon grins. “Shoot.”
“What is the one food that grosses you out?”
He stares at me with an amused expression on his face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”
I smile. Once again, I get the sense that he likes this about me.
“I’m an artist. I’m supposed to be weird.”
“Oh, going for the cliché? Come on now, I know you’re smart, I expect better than you grabbing on to some stereotype.”
A happy feeling sweeps over me. I love how smart he is. That this kind of conversation doesn’t bore him. I know he’s not going through the motions to get to the end game, like Troy did. Because Landon wouldn’t be sitting here with me if that’s what he truly wanted. He’d be with some hot girl hooking up instead.
But he chose me, my heart whispers. Landon chose this night with me, content to eat dinner and ask getting-to-know-you questions.
I grin at him. “Fine. I could ask you the basic questions: ‘What’s the last book you read?’ or ‘If you could invite five people to dinner in all of history, who would they be?’” I say truthfully. “They aren’t bad questions, but they’re boring. I like unexpected questions better.”
“Do you have a pen?” he suddenly asks.
I furrow my brow. “Um, in my purse, why?”
“I need to scratch those questions off my list,” Landon teases.
“Oh, shut up, you so didn’t have those on your list.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “How do you know what is on my list?”
I don’t know what’s on your list, I think as my heart jumps. But I think I want to be on it.
I clear my throat. “You’re evading my question. You promised me you wouldn’t do that.”
He smiles. “You’re right. Sorry. Okay, I hate cooked vegetables. I can only eat them raw.”
“What?” I ask. “Not one?”
“Nope.”
“So you don’t know the joy of sautéed kale?” I ask, mystified. “Or mashed potatoes or steamed broccoli?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Landon! That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Good, so you can check my answer is acceptable.”
“How can you not eat cooked vegetables, like ever?”
“Because they’re gross.”
“You must have had them prepared wrong.”
Landon laughs. “No, I did not. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because it’s unbelievable,” I say.
“There it is again,” Landon
“You know I won’t.”
He leans forward across the table, as if he’s going to spill top-secret information.
“I hate being called Landy.”
“What?” I gasp, shocked. “But everyone calls you Landy!”
“I know,” he sighs. “Everyone calls me Landy, and I hate that name. I’ve had it since I’ve played junior hockey in Canada. It works, it makes sense, and I can’t stand it. But nobody knows that. Except for you.”
Butterflies shift in my stomach. I’m excited that he shared this with me.
“Then I don’t want to call you Landy,” I say. “What do you want me to call you?”
“Landon,” he says softly. “You can call me Landon.”
“Landon,” I repeat, thinking I like that better.
Because Landy I associate with the flashy, flirty hockey player.
Landon, I associate with me.
“My turn,” Landon says, pausing to select a piece of fish. “Is your first name Olivia?”
I shake my head. “Nope. My parents actually named me Livy. Interesting side note—I don’t have a middle name, either.”
Landon takes a bite and studies me thoughtfully. “So,” he says after he eats, “Livy Adams is it, huh?”
“Yes,” I say, taking a sip of my bottled water. “My mom couldn’t think of a middle name she liked so I’m plain Livy Adams.”
“I wouldn’t say plain,” he says.
Ooooooooooooooooooooh!
DEFCON. I need to assign more levels.
Like DEFCON-100.
“Well, thank you,” I say, trying to contain the heat that is rising in my cheeks. “All right. Next question. Very important one. But not serious.”
Landon grins. “Shoot.”
“What is the one food that grosses you out?”
He stares at me with an amused expression on his face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”
I smile. Once again, I get the sense that he likes this about me.
“I’m an artist. I’m supposed to be weird.”
“Oh, going for the cliché? Come on now, I know you’re smart, I expect better than you grabbing on to some stereotype.”
A happy feeling sweeps over me. I love how smart he is. That this kind of conversation doesn’t bore him. I know he’s not going through the motions to get to the end game, like Troy did. Because Landon wouldn’t be sitting here with me if that’s what he truly wanted. He’d be with some hot girl hooking up instead.
But he chose me, my heart whispers. Landon chose this night with me, content to eat dinner and ask getting-to-know-you questions.
I grin at him. “Fine. I could ask you the basic questions: ‘What’s the last book you read?’ or ‘If you could invite five people to dinner in all of history, who would they be?’” I say truthfully. “They aren’t bad questions, but they’re boring. I like unexpected questions better.”
“Do you have a pen?” he suddenly asks.
I furrow my brow. “Um, in my purse, why?”
“I need to scratch those questions off my list,” Landon teases.
“Oh, shut up, you so didn’t have those on your list.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “How do you know what is on my list?”
I don’t know what’s on your list, I think as my heart jumps. But I think I want to be on it.
I clear my throat. “You’re evading my question. You promised me you wouldn’t do that.”
He smiles. “You’re right. Sorry. Okay, I hate cooked vegetables. I can only eat them raw.”
“What?” I ask. “Not one?”
“Nope.”
“So you don’t know the joy of sautéed kale?” I ask, mystified. “Or mashed potatoes or steamed broccoli?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Landon! That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Good, so you can check my answer is acceptable.”
“How can you not eat cooked vegetables, like ever?”
“Because they’re gross.”
“You must have had them prepared wrong.”
Landon laughs. “No, I did not. Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because it’s unbelievable,” I say.
“There it is again,” Landon
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