For our first date, I took Kate downtown to the Silver Key Diner where she spent ninety minutes holding me captive with her sparkling brown eyes. She wore a loose-fitting white sundress patterned with bright yellow sunflowers. The way her shimmering hair fell forward over her bare shoulders made my heart race.
Neither one of us was hungry, so we settled for coffee. Our new attraction had replaced the need for sustenance.
“Katherine Hoffman,” I said, reaching across the table and taking her hand in mine, “you are, without a doubt, the most adorable thing I've ever laid eyes on.”
Her cheeks flushed, a wild pink rose. “Kate,” she replied. “It’s just Kate. But, thank you.”
I leaned back and studied her with caution as she fidgeted with her lip gloss, pulling the cap on and off. I became anxious—worried that I had confessed too much. Was she disappointed that I had said her name wrong?
A couple of minutes later, the waiter dropped off the check. I fumbled as I signed my name on the receipt, unsure of where things were headed. Then, as we stood to leave, Kate leaned over the table—practically tipping over our empty cups—and kissed me.
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