Mister Romance

by Amelia Simone

  Rocking my hermit writer lifestyle meant I didn’t spend much time shopping. I didn’t have any sisters, so I’d never been dress shopping. I had plotted a scene that involved a girls’ shopping trip for my upcoming manuscript, but the closest I’d ever come in real life was watching Clueless. My very own changing room montage with Tamra would be worth my skin turning blue if the air got a little thin. What I lacked in clocked mall hours, I more than made up for with my Netflix subscription and obsession with Queer Eye.

  Chase: There are all kinds of things you can make me do in the name of book research. Also, I’ve binged all of the Queer Eye episodes. I would love to go shopping with a real, live woman as research for an upcoming scene I need to write.

  She didn’t need to know that “research” was in air quotes.

  Tamra: Wow. Thanks for warning a girl. The research options are ... nearly endless. Is there anything you wouldn’t do?

  My grin turned wicked as I read her response. I deleted the message I’d been composing listing all the things I wouldn’t do. It was too early for her to know that I was adamantly opposed to flavored lube and condoms. I scratched at my neck and winced. The resulting body-wide rash and swelling afterward wasn’t seductive. She also didn’t need to know that Jimmy had convinced me that dripping hot wax as foreplay was less sexy if my clumsiness got the fire department involved. It wasn’t exactly the banter I was going for.

  Chase: You’ll have to wait and see. Speaking of waiting to see ... yes to the shopping trip? We could head to the mall before we make dinner. Then I’ll know what to coordinate with for the wedding.

  Tamra: Sure.

  We made the last few logistics arrangements, and I spent most of the day not writing. Instead, I obsessed over my recipe books and cruised a few food blogs, searching for the perfect meal for us to make together. I was tempted to wow her. Move past friendship and have her see me as a man, standing in front of a woman, trying not to screw things up. Time I spent talking about cooking was time I didn’t spend inappropriately inserting breasts into the conversation. For some reason, my male friends didn’t mind it, but women were less excited to discuss them.

  Early on in my career, I’d been in the middle of writing a scene with extensive foreplay before meeting a woman for dinner. Conversation turned to what I was working on, and while I hadn’t admitted to writing a sex scene, I’d told her I was editing one. Mistake the first. She thought that was fascinating and went on to ask more questions about my work and the types of authors I worked with. That led to mistake the second. In my head it was fine to ask her how she liked her breasts to be stroked or sucked as a matter of research in the context of me trying to decide how to give the author guidance to improve the scene. At the dinner table. During our first date. Some women might have been okay with it, but I was not good at reading the signals.

  I suddenly realized how inappropriate my focus had been when my date got to her feet, shoved her cleavage in my face, and told me, “If you’re that interested in my breasts, you should be dating them, not me.”

  Then she walked away. I had been at a loss for words. Which, if my silence had happened earlier in the evening, might have salvaged the situation. I felt like a dick.

  What had been a playful conversation about editing a sexy scene took an uncomfortable turn quickly. I didn’t have the charm to pull that off in a way that didn’t sound sleazy. To her, it probably sounded like I was interested in her breasts in particular. In my head, I was collecting data about breasts in general. You know, for the good of humankind. Outside of my limited hands-on experience, most of my knowledge was the result of reading romance novels or watching porn. I felt a duty to make my writing stronger and more informative for the next generation of romance readers.

  I tried to learn from that disastrous date. Now I had a no-go list for topics of conversation with women: breasts, orgasms, and really any body parts typically covered by swimsuits. I wasn’t a prude, but I struggled with phrasing things in a socially acceptable way. Also, I’d discovered that there was no socially acceptable way to introduce those topics on first dates. Unless you were naked. Then all bets were off. Sadly, I was rarely naked with a woman, and sometimes my preoccupied brain couldn’t help but blurt out the questions that I couldn’t let go of.

  I finally found a recipe for butternut squash ravioli that sounded delicious and simple enough that Tamra might try it again without me if she liked it. After making my ingredient list, I put on my shoes. For the first time in months, I was willing to put on real clothes and go to the grocery store instead of waiting for a delivery. Hermit, party of one.

  The grocery store I chose was a short walk from my apartment and my favorite for special ingredients. City Market was known for their high-quality produce and exotic ingredients. Also, for taking most of my paycheck anytime I walked through the doors.

  I gazed longingly at the different deli items before searching for a well-shaped butternut squash. I shifted through a couple before finding one the right size. I snorted. The long, peach squash won the fleshy and phallic award for the produce aisle. I snapped a picture to send to Tamra before thinking better of it, busting my bathing suit rule. To be fair, we’d obliterated that rule in our first few conversations about nursing. Maybe it was a hazard of growing more comfortable with her, but I couldn’t resist sharing.

  Chase: Something about this butternut is making me feel self-conscious ... about my butternut. LOL

  Fresh sage and ricotta made it into my cart next. I couldn’t resist a long tour of the wine aisle and picked up a couple of bottles for us to choose from. If dinner sucked, we could drown our sorrows in wine.

  I was checking out when my phone buzzed with a response from Tamra. I couldn’t resist taking a peek while I waited for my total.

  Tamra: I’m suddenly feeling very ... hungry. I love a majestic butternut.

  My bark of laughter startled the cashier.

  “Sorry about that. Thanks,” I said as I took my receipt.

  As I walked out with my bags of groceries, my face creased in a smile. Tamra got me. Maybe enough to handle me unscripted.

  Chapter 18 - Tamra

  The day of my shopping and dinner extravaganza with Chase dawned cloudy with a hint of rain, and I was glad to have indoor plans to look forward to. He arranged to pick me up in the early afternoon so we could ride to the mall together after he dropped off groceries for dinner.

  I glanced around my apartment, trying to make sure it was guest-ready. The walls were vanilla beige and the carpet a classic tan. All of the fixtures and trim were builder-grade basics, nothing fancy. I had furnished the space simply, with a deep blue sofa and table. The only real point of interest in the living room were my bookshelves, which were both large and in-charge. The shelves spanned eight feet along one wall and were crammed full of books. I had a whole section of Virginia Rothman’s works, along with some of my other favorite romance and mystery authors.

  My bookshelves were my own love letter to reading and Chase was about to read it all from start to finish. If romances were female desires laid bare, one glance along my most cherished titles would tell him more about me than anything I’d willingly reveal otherwise. Sweet and nerdy, sometimes downright dirty, my tastes ran the gamut, but his books featured prominently. If he didn’t know I was a superfan before, there’d be no hiding it after he saw my shelves. I pushed down the nervous tremor.

  I wandered into my kitchen to make sure it would pass muster. It was boring but clean. The bleach spray I used made my nose tingle. Work habits died hard. Careful cleaning and universal precautions were ingrained even in my kitchen routines. I shuddered remembering Chase’s kitchen. There had been indeterminate substances caked on the counters in places. Brown. Sticky. Disgusting. He’d probably consider the residue part of the flavor. It was a good thing his food was delicious, because his kitchen hygiene gave me hives.

  My mind at peace about the state of my apartment, I turned on the light in my bathroom to gi
ve my appearance a last onceover. Hair, curly, but not frizzy today: check. Light makeup applied, but no lip color so I wouldn’t leave marks on the clothes I tried on: check. My best bra, to give the girls a fighting chance at a semblance of cleavage: check. Underwear that wouldn’t show every line and bulge in a form-fitting dress: double check. Over the top, I wore simple dark jeans and a scoop-neck T-shirt.

  I was as ready as I’d ever be for my makeover. Gina would have forced me to try on every long dress she found. Chase’s style was more of a mystery. His book covers featured stylishly dressed women, but that didn’t necessarily translate to good real-life fashion sense. Playing dress-up for him intrigued me, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. My fantasy of low light and the sultry swish of fabric was likely to run head-on into the reality of unforgiving fluorescent lights and scratchy sequins. I ran a restless hand over the spines on my bookshelf. Chase was already a few minutes late, but a quick glance at my phone revealed that at least he’d sent me a message.

  Chase: So sorry. Fell down the rabbit hole on my last project and lost track of time. Leaving now to come get you.

  I glanced at my clock. He’d left only five minutes ago. At least he remembered, but I hated being late. Punctuality signaled respect. I pushed down the childish voice that urged me to quit thinking about him before I cared too much, and he cared too little. Chase had texted. He had no idea how much showing up on time mattered to me. I glanced longingly at my Kindle. At least I had time for another chapter, so, silver linings.

  I was immersed in my book when the knock on the door jarred me out of the story. I opened the door to see Chase loaded down with groceries.

  “How many people are we cooking for?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Just us. I may have gotten a little carried away with the menu. Let me stash the perishables in your fridge, then we can get going. Point me to the kitchen?”

  I nodded in the right direction and followed behind him, ready to dive for stray groceries if his paper bags split under the weight of everything. “What all are we making with the ravioli? This seems like a ton of food.”

  “Butternut squash ravioli with brown butter sage sauce, a nice side salad with goat cheese and vinaigrette, and a dessert. Plus, wine. Wine is pretty much a requirement.”

  “Wow. That sounds amazing. Also, time consuming. Will we eat tonight?” I joked as I helped him load the butter, cheese, and vegetables in the fridge.

  He nodded solemnly. “Yes. I’ll have you and the meal whipped into shape in no time. Not that I’m into that. Whipping, that is. Unless you are. Because that would be fine with me too,” he added with a mischievous smile.

  My mouth dropped open, and no words came out. Joking or not, he was tapping into my secret fantasies. Chase took my silence as a sign to move things along.

  “Anyway, are you ready to be my project for the day?” He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying my casual outfit. Was it my imagination, or did his blue eyes linger and darken at the hint of cleavage courtesy of my best bra? He clapped his hands together. “To the mall!”

  I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe he was excited. To go to the mall. With me. Calling our outing surreal would be an understatement.

  “You’re sure you want to do this?” I asked.

  “Go to the wedding? Not really, but I’m a trooper. Take you shopping? Absolutely. Again, you’re doing me a favor, letting me live out my makeover fantasies.”

  I looked doubtfully down at his outfit. Was it a good idea to take fashion advice from someone wearing black sweatpants? Granted, they were the athletic jogger kind that clung to his muscled thighs and butt like they were made for him. He’d paired it with a green athletic shirt that brought out his blue eyes and hugged his upper body, showing off the lean definition of his arms. Okay, he was mouth-watering. Seeing him in a tux was going to be fantastic. Seeing him out of the tux was sounding more intriguing all the time.

  I shook myself, realizing I’d yet to respond to his last reassurance. “Great. Let’s go then. We’ve got to satisfy those fantasies.”

  He smiled into my eyes. “Let me know if you have any that I can make come true in return. But whipping’s off the table. Unless you really, really want it back on the table. Speaking of tables, those are totally on the table. For sex,” he said with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  He was joking. At least, I was pretty sure he was joking. But the smolder in his eyes implied more, and I couldn’t help the spike in my temperature. He was throwing innuendo like comedians threw shade. He brought up sex, and all I could do was imagine myself sprawled across the table while he worshipped my body. I fanned myself absently as he turned around for the door. Even the view from behind was sexy. I could picture the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifting in reaction as my tongue stroked the strong column to place a kiss along his collarbone. The sweats that lovingly cupped his butt as he moved toward my front door called for me to reach out for a handful of his firm glutes.

  When I didn’t move or respond, he turned back to me, his expression crestfallen. “I’m sorry. I made it weird again, didn’t I? This is what happens when I get too familiar with someone. My verbal filter implodes. I’ll try to rein it back in. No more talk of table sex.”

  I couldn’t speak beyond my tight throat. I was okay with his teasing. I welcomed it, but it made me want things that weren’t on offer. Yet. Thoughts of turning his suggestions into reality had me tongue-tied.

  “Um. It’s not. Weird, that is. Tables or whipping. Not that I want to do those things right now, I’m just saying that I’m more open-minded than you might think. Sorry. I’m a little distracted.” Apparently it was my turn to make it weird.

  I searched for an excuse and shared the first one I could come up with. “I was just reading. Half of my brain is still stuck in that world.”

  Chase gave me a small smile as I locked up my apartment and we moved toward his car. “I probably have more empathy for that situation than the average person. Speaking of which, I’m truly sorry I wasn’t on time today. I’ll try to do better.”

  I nodded at the apology. Played it cool. He didn’t need to know I’d been annoyed. My insecurities were more drama than he had signed on for—coming with me to the wedding was sure to be bad enough. I didn’t need to dump my other issues on him.

  Not sure what I anticipated a semi-famous author would drive, but Chase’s slightly messy red and white Mini Cooper wasn’t it. It was a cute car, but I struggled to contain my smile watching Chase fold his tall body into the driver’s seat.

  “Nice car,” I said.

  His grin was sheepish. “Not what you expected, huh? What can I say? It’s as close as I’m going to get to James Bond’s Aston Martin in this lifetime.”

  He drove with quiet competence to the nearby mall, his hands sure on the steering wheel as he merged smoothly with traffic. His tall body dwarfed mine as he placed a hand at my elbow and escorted me inside the department store to begin the great dress search. The sea of racks with women circling like sharks didn’t appear to intimidate him. Chase’s attention focused on me.

  “Okay, to get started, how would you describe your style?” he asked.

  My eyes rolled to the side, checking to see if he was serious. “Um, practical?”

  “Okay ... and what look are you going for at the wedding?”

  Again, I checked to see if he was expecting a serious response. I hadn’t anticipated such thoughtful questions, but it was clear he wanted to help me feel my best. “Um, nice?”

  He shook his head at me. “Nice isn’t a style. At best, it’s a lukewarm adjective.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay then, appropriate?”

  He shook his head again and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Clearly I have my work cut out for me. Appropriate? What are you, eighty? No offense, but the last word that comes to mind to describe you is ‘appropriate.’ Sexy, sure. Maybe a little irreverent, but that’s what I like about you. Let’s try this a different wa
y. How do you want to feel at the wedding?”

  The warm glow of hearing him call me sexy had me tilting my head, considering. Learning to dance had shown me I had more potential for commanding a room than I usually took credit for. It was time to show the world a small slice of that poise. “Confident?” I said way too tentatively.

  He nodded. “That’s a good start. We’ll go with that. What type of clothing makes you feel strongest? Bright and floral, or sleek and dark?”

  Again, I was lost. “No freaking clue. You realize I wear scrubs ninety percent of the time, right? So, if you’re asking for confidence, scrubs would be it.”

  “Why don’t we go look at a few things together, then we can find a fitting room?”

  We perused the racks after an uncomfortable conversation about my size range. It felt intimate sharing such a personal detail. He grabbed a few things I thought could be nice. There’s that word again, nice. I could do better. I grabbed a few dresses that were wildly outside my comfort zone, but that was part of the experience. Chase thought I was sexy. Maybe one of these dresses would help me feel that way too. I wouldn’t leave the dressing room if they looked too outrageous on my body.

  Chase declined help from several attendants who tried to take our choices and get us started in a room, and I wondered if he regretted it, because our stack was ridiculous. Finally, when Chase’s arms were full of selections, we moved to the fitting room. Judging from the number of outfits hanging from the rack, we might be eating dinner tomorrow instead of this evening.

  He hung up the dresses in an order of his own making and told me, “Okay, try these on first and work your way back. If you like something, please show me. If you don’t like it, too bad. Still come show me.”