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things in the world, probably.
    And why am I comparing myself to classic movie stars, anyway?  
    A knock on my door interrupts my ridiculous musings.
    He’s here.  Right on time.  Right outside my door, actually.  My heart picks up again as I open my door and then I inhale deeply, trying not to hyperventilate.
    Dante is more beautiful than he was before and he practically fills my doorframe.  Was he this tall yesterday?  He’s wearing a pair of khaki shorts, a white t-shirt and a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. 
    He’s casual and smooth and sophisticated, everything that I want to be but am not.  I’m a farm girl, born and raised and I have never been more aware of that fact than I am right now.  I fight the urge to stuff my hands in my pockets to hide my peeling purple nail polish. 
    “Good morning,” Dante tells me again.  His smile is radiant and dazzling and my knees literally grow weak from staring at it. 
    Trembly knees, much?
    “Good morning,” I smile what I hope is a confident smile. 
    “You look lovely,” he announces, his blue eyes warm.  “Did you sleep well?”
    “Like a baby,” I lie. 
    He cocks his head and the light catches the gold in his hair.
    “Do you know that saying that would actually indicate that you slept horribly?  Babies wake up a million times in the night.  It’s the same thing as when people say that they eat like a bird when they mean to convey that they don’t eat much.  It’s not accurate.  Birds actually eat half their body weight every day.  They have such a high metabolism that they need all of those calories.”
    I stare at him. 
    “Thank you, Encyclopedia Brown,” I tell him with a smile.  He is a refreshing change.  Where I come from, guys don’t think it’s cool to be that smart.
    “Who?”
    I’m astounded for a second, then remember that kids might not read the same books in Caberra as I did growing up.
    “A fictional character,” I answer.  “He was a kid who was super smart and solved mysteries. Never mind.”
    Dante looks amused. “Do you think I’m super-smart, or are you making fun of me?  American humor is sometimes lost on me.”
    “I wouldn’t dream of making fun of you,” I exaggerate as I grab my purse.  “Unless you do something truly hilarious.”
    He looks amused again.  “I’ll take that under advisement.” The corner of his lip twitches.  “Just for clarification, though, how would you define ‘truly hilarious’?”
    I consider that.
    “Um. If your drawers fell off while speaking to the Prime Minister of Britain, maybe.  That would be pretty hilarious, especially if it was televised.  Or if you accidentally texted your mom a private text meant for your girlfriend.  That would be hi-lar-ious too.” 
    Nice.  I’m probing to see if he has a girlfriend and he won’t even realize it.  I’m the definition of smooth operator.  Not.
    He rolls his eyes.
    “Well, there’s a couple of problems.  First, I don’t wear drawers.  I wear underwear.  I wear trousers.  I wear pants.  But drawers?  You Americans and your crazy-talk.”  He pauses to grin.  “Second, I don’t have a mom. Or not anymore, I mean.  She died when I was a baby.  But even still.  You seriously think those things are funny?  You’re a mean-spirited little thing.”
    He smiles and nudges me, but I am appalled. His mother is dead and I made a joke about him accidentally sexting her?   Did I say that I was a smooth operator?  Not hardly. More like WorldClassFreakingIdiot. 
    Before I can apologize or say anything at all, he continues. 
    “Now then.  Are you ready for a day on the most beautiful beach in the world?”
    He smiles his gorgeous smile and I nod mutely, like the WorldClassFreakingIdiot that I am. 
    Dante holds his elbow out for me to take and I realize once again that boys are different here.  They have manners.  Real manners.  Not just the “I’ll hold the obligatory door for you