Andrew took me to an Italian restaurant in Williamsburg that was less than thirty minutes away from my apartment. He opened the door for me when I stepped out of the Uber, thanking the driver profusely, before returning his hand to the small of my back and guiding me inside.

It was a small and intimate gesture, unexpectedly pleasant, and it sent a chill up my spine even though his hand was resting on my jacket. The pressure was light, just gentle enough to remind me that he was there with me, and I liked the fact that he never used it to push or prod me like some guys would. No, Andrew was a gentleman in the true sense of the word, but - at the same time - he wasn't a chauvinist. He held the door open for me not because I couldn't do it for myself, but because he wanted to be polite. An elderly couple entered the restaurant behind us, and he waited at the door for them - keeping it open until they passed through - and even gestured for them to speak to the hostess first.

They took the last available table too, something that some guys would be annoyed by, and he just laughed. We sat down in the waiting area and chatted about our favorite things to do and see in New York for about fifteen minutes before we were seated, and - by the time it happened - I felt like the minutes had breezed past in the blink of an eye.

"Bamonte's is one of the oldest surviving restaurants in New York," Andrew explained to me as I picked up a menu.

It reminded me of the type of restaurant you could find in any city in America. The plates were piled high with food, the china wasn't expensive, and white tablecloths covered every single table. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, obviously fake, and the warm glow of the lights over the packed dining room made me smile. This wasn't some swanky, urban restaurant where trendy hipsters and social climbers came to see and be seen. No, the tables were packed with families and elderly couples, people who had been coming here since the 1950s, and it was absolutely wonderful.

If anyone recognized Andrew, they said nothing, because - to them - we were insignificant. We were just two more people at a cozy Italian restaurant enjoying a wonderful meal on a Sunday night.

"Have you been here before?" I asked, skimming the menu. Everything looked wonderful, and I had no idea where to begin.

Andrew nodded, "When I first moved to New York, I lived down the street. I basically survived off the cheese ravioli in tomato-and-meat sauce. It reminded me of my mother's cooking."

"I guess that means I'll have to try it then," I said with a smile.

When the waiter came to our table, dressed in an impeccable black suit with a neat black bowtie, Andrew ordered us a bottle of wine and a few appetizers to share. We snacked on the bread provided for us, and I soaked in the atmosphere of the restaurant. I was expecting our first date to be something glitzy and glamorous, much like the life of a celebrity, and I was surprised and thrilled to find that Andrew brought me somewhere like this. I knew he wanted the chance to be a normal guy, to be himself instead of the person everyone expected him to be, but I guess I thought it wasn't going to happen the way he wanted.

The fact that it was, however, made me like him even more.

Our food arrived quickly, and the ravioli exceeded my expectations. It was a massive portion, but I polished off the entire plate in record time. Andrew did the same with his, finishing a few minutes before me, and he laughed when I accidentally burped - slapping my hand over my mouth as my cheeks burned red.

"Oh my god," I muttered, dropping my eyes to avoid his gaze out of embarrassment. "That was horrible. I am so sorry."

He shook his head, "It's okay. It was cute."

"Cute?" I couldn't help but laugh. "You have no idea how intimidating you are. I'm on a date with a gorgeous guy, I'm having a wonderful time, and I just...you know. That's one of the worst things that could happen."

Andrew chuckled, "I'm pretty sure the worst thing that could happen would be if you didn't like dessert."

"Dessert?" I lifted an eyebrow. "You're right. That would be a tragedy."

He smiled, and we sipped on the wine before the waiter came to clear our plates. Andrew insisted on paying, promising to let me pay next time, and I smiled at the implication. At this point, I already knew that I wanted there to be a next time, and I was glad that he saw it the same way.

We exited the restaurant a few minutes later, laughing loudly at his horrible Italian accent, and stepped out onto the street. Instead of calling an Uber like I expected, Andrew laced his fingers with mine and led me up the street. It was a quiet neighborhood, the sound of voices crawling out of the restaurant every time the door opened behind us, and I smiled at the orange glow of the streetlights illuminating our path.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked him, unable to mask my smile.

"Up the next block," he answered, his eyes bright even in the darkness. "Dessert, remember?"

He squeezed my hand gently, and I laughed as he bumped his shoulder against mine. We turned the corner, passing a few pedestrians outside of a restaurant, and soon arrived outside Patisserie Tomoko, a bakery that served Japanese-inspired French desserts.

My eyes lit up when we stepped inside, the small interior illuminated with modern lamps hanging from the ceiling as well as twinkling strands of LEDS draped over greenery. It was crowded, with all eight seats at the dessert bar occupied, and several of the patrons seemed to recognize Andrew. Even if they did, however, they were polite enough to leave us alone. Two of the girls whispered to each other excitedly, one of them lifting her phone to snap a photo, but I didn't think anything of it.

Andrew smiled politely at the woman behind the counter, leading me toward the side where we could study the takeout menu. Everything looked wonderful, from macarons to mochi to green tea cheesecake, and my mouth was watering at the thought of each item.

"It's all amazing," Andrew whispered, leaning toward me to speak directly into my ear.

Goosebumps erupted down my neck, and I smiled up at him. We were standing side-by-side, only a hair's width apart as we studied the same menu, and I couldn't help but stare at him. Val was absolutely right. He was gorgeous, by far the best-looking man I'd ever been on a date with, and I was stunned and thrilled that he was interested in me.

He leaned in again, causing my heart to race, and I forgot to breath for a moment as my eyes flickered down to stare at his lips. His hand wrapped around my waist, pulling me closer to him until my arm pressed against his chest, and he pressed his lips against my temple. The sensation of his lips featherlight against my skin sent me adrift, like a castaway floating on a raft in the middle of the ocean, and I prayed that he couldn't feel my heartbeat hammering out of control.

I'd never felt like this before, like I was living in a dream yet anchored to this spot, and I didn't want this moment to end. Every cell in my body was awake and screaming for him to kiss me, to close the gap between us, and to run my hands through his thick dark hair and press my lips against his. The rest of the tiny bakery drifted away in a haze, leaving me in my own little world with no one but him to keep me company.

I was so unbelievably and irrefutably happy that I didn't even notice that I was, inch by inch, lowering my walls to this man standing next to me. Despite my fears, I discovered that I wanted to let him in because this night had been utter perfection. I was so caught up in everything about him, drinking all of it in, that I couldn't even read the menu anymore and I bit my lip to make sure I wasn't dreaming.

"Do you know what you want?" Andrew murmured, his voice drawing me out of my haze.

I shook my head, "Not a clue."

"Okay," he said, turning the woman behind the counter who smiled brightly at him. "Two of everything then."

If this was a dream, I never wanted to wake up.

Are you squealing? Because I'm squealing. #feeeeeeels

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