Gwynne Forster - Finding Mr. Right

He read it to her and added, “We’re in luck, or at least I am. I love Italian baroque chamber music.”

“Me, too. The problem is that it puts me right to sleep.”

“We’ll have our picnic in a few minutes. I don’t suppose you can eat and sleep at the same time.”

She kissed his neck, and he wished she’d warned him. “I guess not. I don’t remember ever dreaming about food. And that’s weird, because I love to eat.”

He covered the boulder with a blue tablecloth, set the table with the matching plates and utensils the caterer supplied and placed their food on it.

“This is wonderful, Byron. A feast beneath the stars in a fairy-tale environment, listening to beautiful music in the company of a man who is literally a heartthrob. If I act a little giddy, who could blame me?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Don’t expect me to behave when you talk like this.” He held a glass of white wine to her lips. “I’ve been drunk on you since the minute I first saw you. If you keep talking like that, I’ll start staggering.” It was all right to joke and tease, but he was serious. “Tyra, I asked you if there was a man in your life, and you said that there wasn’t. Will you give me a chance to be the man in your life?”

She seemed taken aback. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

“No, not yet.”

“If I know up front what your motive is I might cooperate.”

“Fair enough.” He swatted the side of his neck to discourage an offending mosquito. Then he opened the shopping bag and took out the shirts he’d brought.

“Thanks. You’re a very thoughtful man.”

“If you give me a chance, Tyra, I’ll always take good care of you. Always.”

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