night doing each other’s hair and painting our fingernails.” He melodramatically continues, “You pop the popcorn and I’ll make a list of boys for us to call.”
I smile at his indignation and clarify, “I mean, you look gorgeous, very debonair and hunky.”
“I can work with hunky.” He smiles, handing over the vase of peonies he’s carrying. “For you.”
I inhale their heady aroma before putting them on the counter. “These were my mom’s favorite.”
“I know.” I love that Buck knows what my mom’s favorite flower was, that he knew her. It makes the thought of something happening between us that much sweeter.
“Where are we going tonight?” I ask.
“I thought we’d try out the Steamboat Inn. I’ve never eaten there and always wanted to.”
“Oooh, that sounds wonderful.” Like Buck, I’ve always wanted to try that place, but never have. The restaurant is an old riverboat that got turned into a high-end dining establishment years before I moved to town. It’s such a staple that it’s become part of Creek Water’s backdrop.
Buck helps me wrap Sammy’s black shawl around my shoulders—it’s a perfect match for the cocktail dress she gave me. He offers his arm, “Your chariot awaits, milady.”
As we drive through town, I think about how cool it would be to tell our children how we went to prom together and became best friends before falling in love.
Blane and Andie—so what if I name them after the lead characters in Pretty in Pink?— roll their eyes and demand that I don’t tell them anything else.
I ignore them. “We joked about our future children during our first dance, and here you are!” I’d declare while waving my hands with a magician’s flourish.
Imaginary Blane sticks his finger down his throat and pretends to gag himself while imaginary Andie offers, “That’s really sweet, Mom, but we don’t need the gory details.”
By the time Buck pulls into the parking lot at the pier, I’m trying to decide if our kids have English accents or not. I mean if Buck is the dad, then they would probably grow up in London. I’m just having a hard time seeing myself living there. I decide I’d better plan a trip there soon.
On the way up the gangplank I say, “I had a great time today. Thanks for organizing it.”
“Even though you still can’t waltz?”
“Who needs to waltz?” I demand. “It’s a highly overrated dance if you ask me.”
“What are you going to dance to at your wedding?” he asks. Curious that both of our minds are on my future nuptials.
“The lambada,” I deadpan.
“Saucy.” He helps steady me as my heel gets caught in a seam on the deck. “I thought maybe you’d want to reenact the famous Dirty Dancing scene. I can see you now, running across the dance floor in your bridal gown. Your husband picks you up over his head and flies you around the room.”
I burst out laughing at the image forming in my head. “I’ll have to give that some serious consideration.”
“Of course you’ll have to marry a man who can dance, or he might wind up catapulting you into the crowd and seriously injuring you before the honeymoon.” I can’t tell if he’s hinting at being the groom himself. I mean, he can dance.
“I’ll have to include that in my Tinder profile,” I joke.
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” He looks concerned.
“Of course I’m kidding. I already told you internet dating creeps me out.” Then I say, “I’m guessing by your reaction you don’t use the internet for dating purposes?”
“I tried it a couple of years ago but wound up with a bit of a stalker issue. Astra seemed like a perfectly lovely girl until I discovered her hiding in the shrubbery in front of my house with a telescope and a Vegemite sandwich.”
The look on my face has him quickly adding, “She was Australian.”
“What happened after that?” I ask, trying to envision the scene.
“I asked what she was doing, and she told me she was securing the perimeter of the property. She claimed to need to sleep there for a week before she could report on my safety.”
“Oh, no. What did you do?”
“I told her I was moving to the Netherlands and that while heartbroken to leave our budding romance, I felt compelled to fulfill my lifelong dream of carving wooden shoes and making cheese.”
“How did she take that?”
“She said I was mad before packing up her kit and moving on.”
“You out-crazied her. Brilliant!” I compliment his strategy.
“I took it as a sign. After