Page 88 of The Virgin Romance Novelist Chronicles
“I didn’t know you were such a P&P fan.”
“That Elizabeth Bennet is a strong-willed chick to stand up to Mr. Darcy.”
A slow grin spread across his face, loosening the tension in my body. Maybe I had a rough conversation with Henry that truly hurt my heart, but sitting here with Greg, drinking wine, it almost seemed so natural.
“You really know how to win over a girl’s heart with that kind of talk.”
“I’m a Jane-ite, what can I say?” he said, referring to the name Jane Austen fans called themselves.
“Shut up, you are not. Next thing you’re going to tell me you’re a Brony.”
“What’s wrong with that? Frankly, Rainbow Dash is my favorite My Little Pony, but Toola-Roola really has my heart at times.”
I spat some wine out of my mouth from his confession and grabbed for a towel to wipe my lips, as he threw his head back and laughed.
“Please tell me you’re not really a Brony? How do you even know their names?”
“I have a six-year-old niece who is obsessed. I watch her occasionally for my brother and can you guess her latest addiction?”
“My Little Pony?”
“Bingo,” Greg said while tapping my nose. “I get sucked into watching the damn show and playing with her figurines. I have to be honest, some of those ponies are real bitches.”
“I can only imagine. There is only so much sparkle in the world to go around.”
“It’s so true.” He shook his head and smiled. “Enough pony talk, shall we get started on our pizzas?”
“Sure. Let me wash my hands real quick so I can help.”
I got off the barstool and went to his sink. I really admired his small but modern kitchen. It was clean and well decorated. The guy had his stuff together, that was for sure.
“How old are you again?” I asked.
“Wow, getting down to it, aren’t we?” He chuckled and answered. “Thirty.”
“Thirty? Wow, you’re an old man.”
“An old man? Really? Well I guess I’ll just be enjoying the pizza for myself.”
“No I didn’t mean that,” I said quickly while drying my hands. “You’re . . . cultured.”
“Ha. All right, nice recovery. Here”—he handed me half of the dough—“start kneading it and stretching it out so we can put some sauce and cheese on it. I have some toppings in the fridge you can choose from as well.”
“Did you make this dough from scratch?” I asked, seriously impressed.
“I can see from the awe in your eyes that impresses you, so I hate that I have to say no. The pizza shop around the corner sells their dough, so I grabbed some for us tonight.”
“Smart idea. Whenever I make homemade pizza, I grab a box of Jiffy pizza crust and let’s just say it always turns out like crap.”
Laughing, Greg agreed. “Worst pizza dough mix ever. The only thing Jiffy is good for is their corn mix. That stuff is legit.”
“You know every Southern cook is swearing your name from that statement.”
“Hey, I’m a city boy, I don’t know any better. A little honey on that cornbread and you’re good to go. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
“Pretty sure it does,” I teased as I struggled to knead my dough. Greg didn’t seem to be having the same issues as me. “Why is your dough getting all stretched out and mine is shriveling up like balls in a cold vat of water?”
Did I just say that? I threw my hand over my mouth, shocked that I said such a thing on a first date. When I looked at Greg, he was gaping at me as a smile spread across his handsome face.
