She looked at him over the menu, paling. The entire thing was completely crazy, bloody impossible. It wasn't too late. She could still bolt -- the door was right there -- could still throw that damned journal out -- or burn it -- and forget this whole thing.
But he knew. He knew, and it was maddening. But more than that, since she'd first locked eyes with him, he made her feel complete, like he was that void she had always been missing in her life. Perhaps that was why she was being open, was being insanely forward, and had mentioned toe-curling, epically illicit things. Epically illicit. What had come over her?
She half wanted to run, wanted to toss the journal, wanted go back to her lectures and gardening in peace wanted to forget this had ever happened. And yet, at the same time, she didn't. She knew she couldn't. What did it all mean? Where had it all come from?
"Our dreams..." It was a half-question, slight upward inflection at the end of the words. She both needed to hear it aloud, from her own mouth, and needed confirmation that she'd heard right, that they had both dreamed the same thing, same things, improbable as it might seem.
"So where do we go from here?" she asked, putting the menu down.