He grinned. “That’s a lot of questions.”

I shot him a sweet smile. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“True enough. I was born in Pasadena. I lived in Washington State until my early teens, then came back to California to live with my uncle in OC.”

The article on him in Wikipedia had provided scant information about his childhood. He’d already divulged way more than I’d learned by scouring Google. And it was not lost on me that he hadn’t answered the question about his family. Fair enough, I really didn’t want to talk about mine, either. All two of us.

I tried another tack. “What does your dad do?”

“He died when I was four. He was a professor at Caltech.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I don’t remember him at all.”

Another thing we had in common, then. We never knew our fathers. But at least his father had wanted him. Hadn’t handed a wad of cash to his mother with the curt order to “get rid of the problem.”

I cleared my throat and coughed. “Okay, so more speed-dating questions…What’s your favorite color? What is your astrological sign? Where does the Golden Mountain quest chain start? What’s your favorite book?”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion but he could not mask the smile curving at the corner of his mouth. “Blue. Aries. Not gonna tell you in a million years. The Art of War.”

“Crap,” I grumped and then we both burst into laughter.

Dinner continued like that. I learned that he loved Mexican and Chinese. Didn’t care much for Thai. I told him about my absolute obsession with the perfect pizza—New York-style Zito’s in Old Towne Orange. He told me he’d had the authentic stuff and refused to eat New York-style anywhere outside of New York.

He was astonished to discover that I actually preferred the Special Edition version of the original Star Wars trilogy.

He shook his head, eyes widened in mock horror. “I can’t even—”

“Oh c’mon. Three words: better special effects.”

His expression grew dead serious. “Three words: Greedo shoots first.”

I grimaced. “Okay, you have a point there, but I’m not going to change my mind just because of that one little thing—”

“One little thing?!” His mouth dropped. “That one moment changed the entire characterization of Han Solo.”

I tilted my head to the side. “You know, I think I’ve only seen the original version once before?”

He blinked. “Your education is seriously lacking.”

“Hey, last time I checked I was the one with a soon-to-be conferred degree and you weren’t.”

His eyes glowed over his deepening smile. “Touché.” He jerked his chin toward me. “Now it’s your turn. Where’d you grow up? OC?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t move there until college. Heath and I come from the tiniest backwater community in the high desert hills in California called Anza. Our only claim to fame is that the Pacific Crest Trail goes practically through the center of town. Only freaks and geeks come from Anza.”

We talked for a long time, until after dessert. We’d shared a cherries jubilee flambé that had threatened to set the room on fire. At one point, we ended up using our spoons to fence for the last bite. He won, scooping up the last morsel in his spoon and then gallantly holding it out for me to eat.

And just next door, for I had been listening to the strains of the orchestra for most of the night, was the dancing. He offered me an arm, like a gentleman out of a nineteenth-century period miniseries. Awkwardly, I took his arm and let him lead me toward the dance floor.

“I don’t dance like this at all. Just sayin’ that I hope your shoes have metal tips for toe protection.”

“Just follow my lead. It’s the foxtrot. The steps are easy. Slow. Slow. Quick, quick. I’ll lead you.”

I frowned. “And how do you know how to dance like this? Did you time warp out of Downton Abbey?”

He smiled. “My cousin danced ballroom dance for competition. She forced me to be her practice partner.”

“Ah.” Though I had a very tough time picturing him being forced into anything by anyone.

“Come,” he said. “Just follow my cues. I’ll guide you with the hand on your back.”

And after a few minutes of fumbling, I eventually got the hang of it, though I was quite sure no one would ever mistake us for Johnny and Baby from Dirty Dancing.

In this dress, with these glittery heels, in the arms of this man, the sensation of being outside of myself—of living in a waking dream—continued.