The exposed brick walls are painted white and soft music plays over the speakers, but the voices of the people sharing a meal make the restaurant loud.
"I enjoy it when you take my suggestions," Vincent says, leaning in close once our waitress walks away.
He cologne swirls around me and I smile, not telling him the real reason behind my choice. "I figure you have good taste."
"That I do." His hand lowers, resting on my knee and disturbing the tablecloth. "How is your dad?"
I'm conflicted. Do I push his hand away or thank god for letting him touch me again?
"Good. When are you going to meet my parents?" I don't mean that the way it sounds. It's purely so they can thank him for the help he did for my father, but I worry it comes off as if I want it for other reasons.
His hand travels u
