“Um, work.” I wasn’t sure why I lied, but him thinking I was a tourist made me feel safer. “I’m meeting a friend who is running late, though. I’m sure she’ll fly in any moment.”
He grinned. “Her arms will be tired.”
I scrunched my nose and shook my head. “That was awful.”
He chuckled again, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Bad jokes are my thing.” He paused, taking in my reaction before asking, “Not even a pity laugh?”
“I couldn’t in good conscience.” I smiled, swallowing the last of my drink and slipping the sweater off my shoulders. I’d consumed the second gin and tonic quickly, and my smile emerged without me thinking. “What about you? Here for business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure, I suppose.”
My cheeks heated, but I was confident he wouldn’t notice in the bar’s low light. I blamed my empty stomach and the gin for the image that ran, unbidden, through my head. After only a brief conversation with this guy, my mind was conjuring something worthy of Cinemax late night. I do need to break this dry spell.
The rich tone of his voice wasn’t helping. “I’m here for a friend’s wedding. Might get a little work in, too. You know, two birds, one flight.”
My phone vibrated.
Felicia: UR gonna kill me! Miles and Ari both got sick—Vomit-palooza hit me on my way out the door.
“Sorry, it’s my friend,” I said before tapping out a reply.
Naya: Vomit or illness hit you?
Felicia: Both. It’s like the girl from the Exorcist ate gas station sushi. I can’t leave the babysitter with this and Aaron had to go be with his mom.
Jake looked over at me. “Everything okay?”
“My friend’s twin boys are sick and she’s telling me about it in graphic detail,” I said, meeting his eye. “I guess she’s not coming.”
“That’s too bad.” He took a sip from his glass and looked at the TV screen above the bar.
Felicia: I’m so sorry, Turner.
Naya: Do you need me to help?
Felicia: Stay away. I would hate to get sick on your shoes. Though, I’ve seen your shoes. Might be an improvement.
Naya: They’re new. But let me know if you need anything.
I glanced back at Jake staring at the baseball game and tipped my glass to take a cube of ice into my mouth. I paused, crunching. Part of me hoped that Felicia would hold me to sticking to the list. “I guess that’s my cue to go.”
His knee bumped mine as he turned to face me. His glance flicked down to the bare skin above my breasts and then back up. I should have been offended, but I liked that he saw me. “You could always stay and keep a lonely guy company.”
My body stirred, heat spreading. Two drinks that fast on an empty stomach was probably a mistake, and he was asking me to keep him company. Is that code?
Jake winced in response to my awkward silence. “Too cheesy? I’m sorry.”
“No. I mean . . . yeah, it was cheesy,” I said, resettling on my seat. “But that’s not a bad thing.”
He signaled for the bartender, then tilted his head toward me. “Another?”
“Why not?”
“Another for the lady,” he added, to the distracted bartender.
The corners of Jake’s lips curled, revealing tiny dimples and laugh lines at the edge of his mouth. He leaned close, making it easier for me to hear him over the bar noise, and when the bartender set down my drink, just a little splashed over the side this time.
Let someone buy me a drink.
“Check,” I said under my breath.
“Check?” He cocked his head. “Oh, my treat. Unless . . . do you have to go?”
“No, sorry. It’s silly.”
“I like silly.”
“It’s really silly,” I insisted, taking a sip.
“I like really silly,” he said, his light-colored eyes dancing. “C’mon. I gave you my best bad joke. It’s only fair.”
“My friends thought I needed coaching on how to get a life. They made me a to-do list.” God, why am I telling him this?
“And you checked something off the list?”
“Yes,” I admitted, taking another sip from my drink to avoid eye contact.
“What was it?”
“Let someone buy me a drink.”
“Glad to be of service.” His lips turned up. “What else is on this list?”
“I’m usually a homebody. All the items lead to me acting a bit irresponsible.” Like giving all this information to a complete stranger who could be a serial killer.
The royal blue fabric of his shirt stretched across well-developed pecs and a flat stomach I kind of wanted to reach out and touch. He toyed with a coaster on the bar and eyed the horde of women over my shoulder. A Tuesday seemed a strange night for a bachelorette party, but our initial subject, the blonde, had donned a veil and a tiara made of tiny pink plastic penises dotted with rhinestones that glowed and sparkled as someone snapped a photo using the flash. I wonder how buying that impacted her recommendations on Amazon.
“I could help you check other things off.”
Want to join me in a dark corner? I smiled at the bold voice in my head, and my knee shook under the bar.
“I shouldn’t monopolize your night.” I checked my phone, and I groaned internally. Barely eight o’clock. Normally, I’d be in my pajamas.
“It’s a selfish request. I’ve been stuck helping with wedding things since I arrived this morning, and my friend’s future wife is acting a lot like her.” He gestured toward the blonde. “I could use a break and to spend time with a grown-up.”
“How do you know I’m not actually one of them?”
“Good point. I guess I don’t.” The knee of Jake’s jeans again grazed my bare leg below the hem of my dress. The nudge felt sinful, and another wave of heat spread through my body. He dipped his head close to mine. “How many erotic tiaras do you own?”
I counted off my fingers. “Technically, four, but I lent one out for the royal wedding and haven’t gotten it back yet.”
“I might be willing to take my chances.” He raised his glass. “What do you say?”
C’mon, girl. Volume up.
I clinked my glass to his bottle. “I have just one condition.”
“Name it.”
“Can we promise to stay away from real-life details like work and last names?” I sounded like an unhinged person, but I couldn’t abandon years of protecting myself, and I knew a stranger having your personal information could go bad quickly.
His full lips stretched into an amused smile. It was hard to tell the exact color of his eyes in this light. They were pale, maybe blue or green, but completely mesmerizing. “Sure . . . just Jake and Michelle. Like Sonny and Cher.”
His next question caught me off guard. “What is your favorite snack?”
“Like, to eat?” I took another sip and realized I was beyond tipsy.
His eyes narrowed. “What would ‘snack’ be slang for?” He held up his palm before continuing. “Wait, don’t answer. Nothing appropriate comes to mind.”
The drinks left me a little out of my head, and I thought back to the list. Flirt. “Sometimes appropriate is overrated.” I averted my gaze, but a quick glance back at him showed a surprised expression on his face.
“Good to know,” he said into his bottle with a smile before tipping it to his lips.
“I like ice cream,” I said quickly, to hide my embarrassment.
“I like ice cream, too.” Jake signaled toward the bartender to close out his tab. “We could stay here or track down some ice cream?” He pulled his phone out and tapped a search for a nearby location. “There’s a shop not far from here.”
I weighed out the safety of going with a stranger, but the area was well lit and packed with people. I have pepper spray
if I need it. I’d been considering joining Felicia for her kickboxing class. I always felt vulnerable when I was out alone, and I didn’t like that feeling.
Jake tucked his wallet into his back pocket, and I imagined being wrapped in his arms, feeling protected by his embrace. The thought was equal parts wonderful and scary.
“Let’s go.” The hem of my dress shifted across my thighs as I slid off the stool, and his eyes darted over my bare legs. I didn’t know why his gaze felt so intense, but it did.
One of the woo-hoo girls approached him and motioned to the bride-to-be, who was now across the room with lollipops taped to her shirt. “It’s my best friend’s bachelorette vacation—five days to go wild!” The woman squealed and flashed a toothy grin. She dressed like many of my students, skintight jeans and a cotton candy pink top that dipped so low, it revealed everything except her nipples. “Suck for a buck?” she asked in a sugary voice.
Jake frowned as she grabbed at his arm, pushing her breasts against him. I guessed she was easily fifteen years his junior, and he avoided staring down her low-cut shirt.
She motioned to her friend again. “Please? She’s shy, that’s why she’s not asking herself, but you’re so cute!”
He inched closer to me, creating distance between himself and the woo-hoo girl, and I took pity on him and stepped forward, edging her back. “Honey,” I said, lacing my fingers through his. They were surprisingly warm and curled with mine immediately, sending an unexpected rush through me. “We need to get going. You’ve got that appointment in the morning.”
The young woman seemed to notice me for the first time but didn’t release her grip.
Damn, that was bold.
“With the proctologist,” I added, hoping to prompt her to walk away.
She was like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar command.
“About your chronic hemorrhoids.”
The woman giggled. “Um, never mind!”
Jake stared at me, his expression hovering between shock and amusement. Finally, he laughed, leading me toward the exit as the pink envoy scurried back to her coven of bachelorettes. “You couldn’t have said it was an appointment to have my Ferrari detailed or something?” He was still holding my hand as we walked through the door, and the giggles dissipated as we shifted into the warm night air.
“I’m not sure she knew what ‘proctologist’ meant.”
Storefronts and restaurants lined the streets, and white twinkle lights were strung along wrought iron gates surrounding a patio.
“But, hemorrhoids?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to make of a beautiful woman talking about the state of my . . . backside.”
Beautiful?
“Do you want me to run back in and set the record straight?” I turned to the bar, our hands falling apart.
“No!” He wrapped his long fingers loosely around my wrist, the lightest pressure there before his hand fell away.
I flinched, just for a moment. He didn’t seem to notice, and after a slow breath, I kind of wanted him to touch me again.
What would his hands feel like elsewhere on my body?
I raised a three-finger salute as we continued down the street, where people shuffled along crowded sidewalks and milled in small groups. “On my honor, I promise to not mention your colon or any related topics for the rest of the night.”
Not even a six-volume anthology on flirting could save me at this point.
“Thank you.”
“But it must be a little ego boost, being hit on like that.”
“They were way too young and too . . . loud.” He nodded to the ice cream shop, and we walked that way.
“I’ve had my fill of young and loud with my friend’s fiancée and her entourage. Besides, you agreed to get ice cream with me, so my ego is plenty boosted.”
“Are they young, your friends?”
“Thomas is a few years older than me, close to forty. Madison . . . graduates from college next spring.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-one.” He shook his head. “Like I said, that woman back there? No, thanks.”
My gin-fueled buzz was some kind of magical cloak, leaving me light and silly, but not drunk or sloppy. I had enough courage to break the silence. “So then, you’re telling me you like women who are old and, what, quiet? Like white-haired librarians in sexy cardigan sweaters and support hose?” I cringed, tossing my own cardigan over my purse.
“Do you know any?” He flashed his brilliant smile. “When they shush you, it’s mind-blowing.”
A group of teenagers nearby eyed us as I laughed harder, picturing Mrs. Haley, the stooped, ninety-year-old volunteer librarian from my hometown, in a leather corset with a riding crop.
“And the glasses on a chain?” He fanned himself.
I snorted as we approached a small storefront with a neon ice cream cone in the window. Music wafted from the crowded corner where a young man in a flannel shirt strummed his guitar next to an open case.
Jake held the door as the sweet, nutty smell and telltale chill of the ice cream shop surrounded me. Inside, the space was retro by design, with kitschy linoleum tables edged with shiny aluminum molding and a jukebox in the corner. There was a line, and we both inspected the display cases. “Know what you want?” he asked.
I always chose vanilla, but in that moment, it sounded so plain, so boring, so, well, vanilla. I read some options. Pumpkin stracciatella. Peanut butter bacon. Lemon pomegranate granita.
“Not sure . . .” I reviewed the options and tried to ignore how much I enjoyed the heat radiating from his body.
He stared into the display as we moved forward in line. “I think I should get kiwi-strawberry mocha, you know, owing to my Australian filmmaker roots.”
“That sounds disgusting,” I whispered, hoping the employees couldn’t hear me, as it was listed as a signature flavor. “And isn’t kiwi fruit more of a New Zealand thing?”
I stilled. I’d corrected him without thinking about it.
“I’ll have to look it up the next time I’m at the library.” He smiled and took it in stride.
Okay, not the reaction I expected.
“You’re taking chances tonight, right? Let’s pick flavors for each other. Close your eyes,” he coaxed.
I cast him a nervous glance before closing them.
“Pick a number between one and four and then a letter between A and . . . F,” he instructed, all business.
“Two and . . . D.”
“Okay, open your eyes.” He touched my elbow, the brief brush of his fingertips eliciting a sweet sensation of tingles. “There are four cases, and I assigned a letter to each flavor in the case. Now I know what you’re ordering.”
“So, what’s my flavor?”
“It’s a surprise. Do me.” He closed his eyes without waiting for me to respond.
Freudian slip?
I let my eyes wander unabashedly while his were shut. He was tan like he spent time outside. His fingers were long, and his nails were neat without being overly manicured. My stomach fluttered thinking about how those fingers could slide inside me. Good Lord, I am drunk and horny.
“Did you abandon me?” he asked nervously.
I snapped my head back up. “One through four, and then a color. I’m assigning the cases each a color.”
“Okay, four and . . . blue.” He opened his eyes.
We moved to the front of the line, and Jake ordered for me first, a large scoop of dulce de leche.
It sounded amazing. I stepped closer and ordered for him, asking for a scoop of kiwi-strawberry mocha, tickled he’d picked blue.
We left through the shop’s back door and looked for a table on their patio, where white twinkle lights strung above us made the space feel magical. I attempted to scan the crowd, making sure Davis wasn’t there. I always checked
.
“I mean this in the nicest way, Jake, but you’re kind of a nerd, huh?”
“How did you guess?” He eyed the neon green scoop with flecks of chocolate in his bowl.
“The whole numbers and letters thing; you were excited about that.” I licked a spot of ice cream threatening to drip down the side of my bowl and moaned while we walked. I could have fallen to the sidewalk and melted into a puddle.
His grin widened. “That good, huh? To your question, it depends. Do you like nerds?”
We sat at a bistro table in the corner. “I definitely like nerds,” I said, pushing imaginary glasses up on my nose. “But more importantly, do you like your ice cream?”
Jake eyed his bowl skeptically, then shot his gaze to me.
“You picked blue! I had to follow your rules.”
Taking a tiny portion on his spoon, his whole face collapsed as he tasted it. “First hemorrhoids and now this. You don’t like me very much, do you?” He pushed it toward me. “Do you want to try?”
I took another bite of my new favorite flavor. “No way, but you can share mine. Be warned, though: It’s like a sweet little orgasm for your mouth, only cold.” I froze, my cheeks heating. I clapped my hand over my mouth. I just referenced orgasms . . . in his mouth . . . in public.
Forget the anthology. I’m hopeless.
He blinked, his jaw slack for a moment. “Never had a cold one,” he said slowly before taking a small bite from my bowl. “But, wow, you’re right, that is good.” He shifted his eyes left to right. “Did you cheat my system? Are you some kind of ice cream hustler?”
I offered my bowl to him again, urging him to take another bite. “No, just luck of the draw. But this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
His gaze skimmed over my face, pausing momentarily on my lips.
I wonder how he tastes.
I stifled the urge to hide my mouth behind a napkin. “Do you want the last bite?”
“No, thanks.”
“You sure? I feel bad ordering that flavor for you.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I’d much rather watch you enjoy it.”
“Oh?” I slipped the spoon to my mouth, tracing my tongue along the underside to stop its contents from dripping down my chin, then taking it between my lips.
How to Fail at Flirting Page 3