This Is Love. Nana Malone

He wasn’t going to be the one to tell her, though.

      “Sorry. This is somehow more awkward than every first date I’ve ever been on. And for me that’s saying something.”

      “Look, I go on a lot of first dates.”

      “Somehow that does not surprise me,” she muttered under her breath.

      He opened his mouth in mock shock. “Oh, my God, was that an attempt at snark or humor? Be still my heart. I might be in love.”

      That did it—a giggle escaped, transforming her normally stoic face into one that completely arrested him. Wow. Her full smile could easily be a weapon of mass destruction for men everywhere. He should call somebody about that or something. Report it. What was that campaign the MTA was putting out there? If you see something, say something? Valentine Anderson was lethal. Thing was, he was pretty sure she didn’t know it.

      “Okay, well, you can call me Val. I hate the name Valentine. And these days it’s more of a curse thing anyway.”

      “That’s too bad. I think it’s cute, but Val it is. So, Val, what do you say we actually go somewhere, do something? We can head uptown to the Met or to Central Park. Or we can stay down here and check out the Moore Gallery. It just opened and—”

      She stammered as she interrupted him. “Y-you want to go to the Moore Gallery?”

      He frowned at that. “Yeah. I love art. I am a photographer. I like to look at beautiful things.”

      She put up a hand. “Sorry. I guess until yesterday, I wasn’t even really sure you were a photographer. I assumed artist, but even then, like a welding artist or glassblower or something. I kept trying to pair the loud music with you.”

      “Glassblower, huh?” He laughed. “I kinda like that idea. I should totally photograph that. Sorry to disappoint, though.”

      “It’s okay.” She shrugged. “At one point I also convinced myself that you were the leader of a motorcycle gang and you were running a black market operation or something out of your loft.”

      “I like how you think.” He nodded toward her untouched coffee. “You want to get that in a to-go cup so we can leave and check out the gallery? Beats sitting here trying to get all our details written down. We can make it more organic.”

      She raised a brow. “Like a real first date?”

      The hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning. Was she indicating that she wanted this to be a real date? This was not part of the dozen or so scenarios he’d run. “Uh, not really.”

      She barked out a laugh, and damn it, his brain did that misfire, unfocused thing again. “Oh, my goodness, you should see your face right now. Relax, slick. I don’t want to date you any more than you want to date me. You are not my type in any way, shape or comprehensible form.”

      He frowned. Wait, why are you upset? You don’t want to be her type. Yeah, but still. He was every woman’s type. Evidence being how he ended up here in the first place. “Uh, that’s a first, but whatever.”

      “We can leave the coffee. I can’t drink it anyway.” She stood.

      “Why not? Something wrong with it?” He followed.

      She shook her head. “I’ll have that bitter taste on my tongue all damn afternoon and I won’t be able to eat, because I can taste the burned citrus flavor of the beans. It’ll make me nuts.”

      “Seriously? You don’t like coffee?”

      “Oh, I love coffee, I just need it to be good coffee. Otherwise I can’t taste anything else. And for a food blogger, that’s disastrous.”

      He frowned. “First of all, what do you mean, good coffee? Second of all, how is it that I didn’t know you’re a food blogger?”

      She shrugged. “You pay much attention to lifestyle brands?”

      “I’m a photographer, remember?”

      “Yeah, good point.”

      He opened the door for her and had to grit his teeth when she brushed by him lightly. Hell. This hormonal thing was going to be a problem. Relax, it’ll go away. Soon enough, he’d be on assignment...he hoped, anyway. On assignment he could sleep with a whole bunch of women to block out the taste of her. Right now, though, damn. “What’s your handle or whatever?”

      “I’m Val’s Heart.”

      He stopped in his tracks. “Seriously? You’ve been in a few national magazines. You had an article on ethnic food we’ve been missing or something like that.”

      She grinned. “You saw that?”

      “Well, I was helping out the art director for layout with some of the spare photos I’d done. I went to that Eritrean restaurant you recommended in Brooklyn.”

      The wonder in her eyes and her smile were completely infectious. “Wow. Someone who knows me. That’s great.”

      “Well, lots of people know you. You’re in magazines.”

      “Yeah, I guess, logically I know that, but it’s not like I meet someone and I’m all, I’m Val’s Heart, you know.”

      “I guess so. So tell me, where is this great coffee? And why won’t you be able to eat anything else?”

      She grinned as she led the way down Prince Street. “I sort of have a combination of hyperosmia and synesthesia. The hyperosmia I was born with, though it intensified when the synesthesia started. It’s like I can taste and smell everything. Everything has a scent. Coffee, for example, is extremely strong. If it’s not the good stuff, I’ll be tasting the bitter aftertaste for the rest of the day. And I’ll be able to smell it nonstop. Not to mention I wouldn’t be able to do anything else with my taste buds.”

      “That’s amazing. So everything has a specific odor?”

      She nodded. “Sometimes it can be great. Like when you walk into one of those high-end chocolatiers where they do shavings for you? Man, that place is like pure nosegasm.”

      A laugh burst forth. “Did you just say nosegasm?”

      She nodded. “Sure did. It’s a thing. At least to me it’s a thing. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, too. If I’m not mentally prepared, or I don’t have my nose plugs, large crowds will give me a headache like no other. Also, a night out at a cramped club or something with my girlfriends can be hazardous. Bigger venues can be better as long as they’re nice and airy. But a lot of guys put on way too much cologne.”

      He knew he shouldn’t ask the question, but his curiosity got the better of him. “What do I smell like?”

      Her answer was immediate. “Sandalwood and musk, and there’s something like the hint of the ocean. It’s a fresher scent. I can’t really place it.”

      “So is that good or bad?” Why did his voice sound so husky?

      “It’s, uh—” A faint hint of pink tinged her cheeks, and he had to smile. So he smelled good to her, huh? Why the hell was that a good thing? “You know. For people who like sandalwood, it’s great. Come on, let me show you what real coffee tastes like.”

      His next question died on his tongue. Do you like sandalwood?

      * * *

      So Bennett Cooper wasn’t all bad. And if Val was being honest with herself, she’d had fun. A really good time. The gallery was just the icebreaker she’d needed. It was easier to be free with him when they were walking and talking.

      And while he might not be the best neighbor, he was smart. Quite brilliant. The man had been all over the world. He was talking about an expedition to the North Pole next. Once they’d started on travel and food, they pretty much hadn’t stopped talking.

      So maybe trying something new hadn’t been the end of the world. Val