on my arm until I look at him, and the understanding in his blue eyes calms me down immediately. “I want to kiss you. I really do. But I have to ask you something first.”
“Okay,” I say with a little apprehension. It’s not like I have a ton of kissing experience, but I don’t think the act is usually preceded by an interview portion.
“I’m not trying to freak you out or anything, but you know I’m older than you.”
“Late-thirties isn’t that old.”
He winces. “Mid-thirties, okay?”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Anyway,” he continues. “I’m having fun hanging out with you, and I think you’re having fun, too, right?”
I nod.
“But at my age, I can’t just have fun forever. I’m not asking you to marry me after a couple of dates or anything, but I have a kid. I can’t keep dating someone if I don’t think we have a future, so I guess what I’m asking you is . . . are you really into this?”
I freeze, then stare at a random couple coming out of the restaurant. His arm loops around her shoulders and she leans into him with the comfort of two people who’ve been together for a long time and plan to stay together. It looks nice. I glance back at Carter, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and I think about what it would be like to have that sort of life with him. Because the thing is, Carter is great. He’s nice and funny and, okay, super hot in a slightly-older-than-me way. To paraphrase Melanie Griffith in Working Girl, he’s got a head for lighting films and a bod for sin.
But have I ever once fogged up a coffee shop window while fantasizing about those strong, solid, dependable arms ripping off my clothing?
I open my mouth but don’t say anything, my heart breaking just a little as this one possible future dies.
“You can be honest,” Carter says gently.
“I’m sorry,” I say, as deflated as a helium balloon a week after a three-year-old’s birthday party. “I do like you, I swear, but—”
He holds up a hand. “You don’t have to justify yourself, really.”
“It’s just,” I continue trying to justify myself, despite his protest. “You’re great. You’re perfect. You’re literally everything I ever wanted in a man. You own a houseboat.”
“Still not getting why that’s such a thing for you,” Carter says.
But then I stop for a moment and think of the way I felt when Drew and I were alone in my room, when he was talking about my writing and standing so, so close to me and I know that what I feel for Carter is not the same. Sure, it’s absolutely ridiculous to turn down a real-life guy because of a movie star, like saving myself for one of the Jonas Brothers in junior high, but it’s how I feel.
“It just . . . wouldn’t be fair for us to keep going out,” I say quietly.
Carter nods. “I wanted it to work, but I could tell there was something holding you back. I think . . . maybe both of us wanted a connection, so we were trying to force one.”
I cover my face with my hands. “I feel bad for trying to force it.”
“I don’t think either of us should feel bad. We’re just two people trying to find someone . . . there’s nothing wrong with that.”
I nod. “Like Greg Kinnear or Bill Pullman.”
“Um . . . sure?” Carter’s knowledge of rom-coms apparently doesn’t extend to the Ephron canon.
He tilts his head, like he’s weighing what he’s about to say, but then he goes for it. “Listen, Annie. This might be overstepping a bit, since I don’t know if we’re at the level where we can give each other advice, but we’ve been pretty honest in the short time we’ve been hanging out.”
I nod, wondering what he could possibly be about to say.
He ducks his head a little bit to look me directly in my eyes. “If you’re as head over heels for Drew as you seem, you should go for it.”
My jaw drops like I’m a cartoon character. “Excuse me?”
Carter chuckles. “It’s . . . pretty obvious. You guys have something going on.”
I shake my head but don’t say anything.
“I’m not telling you what to do or anything, but I’ve never heard anything bad about Drew. And if you’re lucky enough to connect with someone in a world where that’s pretty hard to find . . . well, I think you should grab life