by Vanessa Page
And if I happen to impress this blind date of mine while I’m wearing it, then so be it.
I pull the dress down and smooth it over my hips. Since it’s backless, I can’t wear a bra with it, but the layers of material are designed to maintain at least a modicum of modesty while giving the appearance of translucence. And my breasts are small enough that they stay right where they’re supposed to even without the benefit of underwire. The dress falls around my mid-thigh, a perfectly respectable length, but it flows airily around my legs. When I have the layers all settled into place, I step into my shoes, grab my white clutch purse and my phone, and turn to Miranda. “Ready?”
“Let’s do this!” She cheers and hops to her feet.
I grab my thick, gray knit sweater and follow Miranda out of my dorm room and down to the lobby, then outside. The air outside is a little cool, but not cold enough to warrant my sweater yet, so I sling it over one arm and look around for Miranda’s mystery man. And mine.
“There he is,” she whispers and grips my arm, probably to keep herself from doing something like jump up and down in excitement. Miranda isn’t exactly the most subtle of people.
I follow the direction of her gaze to what I’m sure must be a male model. He’s well over six feet tall, with creamy skin, jet black hair, and a cleft in his chin. Dimples in his cheeks make him look young, even younger when he smiles at Miranda. His dark gray slacks stretch over muscles in a way that makes me think they must have been tailored specifically to him, and a light gray button down, with sleeves rolled up at the elbows does nothing to hide broad arms and chest muscles and a sculpted torso.
As he closes the distance between him and us, he produces a single white calla lily from behind his back, and I’m immediately impressed. This guy is smooth. He’s considerate enough to bring her a flower, but smart enough to avoid something as cliche as a rose. And I’m pretty sure calla lilies are Miranda’s favorite flower. Did he know that when he got it or was it a lucky guess? He leans down and gives Miranda a soft kiss on the cheek, something she’s always told me she finds so much more romantic than a kiss on the lips, and I’m now certain this guy knows exactly what he’s doing.
But there’s just one problem… he’s alone. No date for Miranda’s reluctant moral support—AKA me. Did the other guy bail? Does that mean I get to go back inside, get back into my PJs, and spend the night with a pint of ice cream and Michael Fassbender, circa Assassin’s Creed?
“Where’s your friend?” Miranda asks, looking around.
Jameson smiles down at her and wraps an arm around her. He’s here. I couldn’t find a parking spot and security was circling, so he stayed with the car while I came to get you ladies.
“Good. I got worried maybe he’d backed out,” Miranda says as she lets him lead us toward the student parking lot on the other side of the quad.
“Not a chance.” Then to me, he says, “So, Krystal, Miranda tells me you’re a business major.”
“Yep,” I answer as I take quick steps to try to keep up with his and Miranda’s long strides. It sucks being the only shorty around tall people, because they always forget how much harder my little legs have to work to keep up. At this pace, I’m going to be out of breath by the time we reach the car.
The farther we walk, the farther behind I get, but Miranda and Jameson don’t seem to notice; they’re locked away in their own little world filled with flirty smiles and small caresses. Maybe if I get far enough from them, I can slip away and I won’t have to go on this weird date at all.
No such luck. Just as we reach the student parking lot, Miranda looks behind her and stops walking, pulling Jameson up short along with her.
“Krys, what are you doing all the way back there? You’re not having second thoughts are you?”
Second, fifth, eighth. One hundredth. Heck yeah, I am. “You’re like eight feet tall, Mir. I wasn’t going to run in heels just to keep up with you guys.”
Jameson barks out a laugh, and Miranda looks at me sheepishly. She opens her mouth to say something, but a shiny, gunmetal gray SUV pulls up to the curb in front of us.
“This is us,” Jameson announces and pulls the passenger side door open for Miranda. He motions for her to sit and closes the door behind her before reaching for the back passenger door and opening it. He gestures for me to climb into the back, and I do so at the same time his friend gets out of the driver’s seat and moves toward the back. My blind date climbs in beside me as Jameson shuts the door on me, trapping me in the backseat with my mystery man. I busy myself with my dress and avoid looking at him immediately, not wanting to seem too eager.
In my periphery, I’m acutely aware of him settling in, stretching long legs out in front of him as far as he can in the back seat.
Great. Another giant. I’m suddenly picturing myself getting out the car at whatever restaurant we’re going to and finding that he towers over me. I’m envisioning myself the size of a small child, looking up at my friends who might as well be skyscrapers for all their lofty height. The thought makes me giggle, and I’m quick to suppress it. My date is going to think I’m a crazy person, sitting here laughing at nothing.
I steal a glance at him and stop short.
“Jace?”
Jace’s short, dark hair is styled close to his head tonight, sleek and classy, and his clothing fits the bill as well: a crisp black button-down shirt, tucked in but with sleeves rolled up and paired with dark jeans and shiny black shoes. His look is clean and natural and simple, not too dressy, but fresh.
And his cologne, or soap, or aftershave, or whatever I’m smelling is minty and woodsy and makes me think of camping on a cool evening.
“Hello, Krystal.” His voice is deep and rich, and it rumbles through me in a way that makes me want to ask him to read poetry or something, anything to get him to keep speaking to me with that thick timbre. Until I remember that he rejected me on the basis that he was fresh out of a relationship.
“You said you don’t date.” And now I’m replaying that night in my head. Was it actually just me he was rejecting? Letting me down easy? Something like shame or embarrassment begins a slow boil in my chest.
At least he has the decency to look suitably ashamed. He ducks his head as a soft blush creeps over his cheeks. “I don’t.”
“And yet… here we are… on a date.” I wave both hands in a motion that encompasses the whole backseat, him, and me.
“I’m here for Jameson.” Jace nods his head toward his friend in the driver’s seat as we pull away from the curb and roll toward the main road leading off campus.
“And it cost me some primo football tickets to get him here,” Jameson pipes up.
My embarrassment eases some at the idea that Jameson had to be bribed to go on this blind date. I wasn’t exactly a willing participant either. But now that we’re both here, and he’s looking—and smelling—so good, I might as well make the best of it. “So, where are my tickets?”
Silence. Crickets. Neither Jameson nor Jace has an answer. In fact, Jameson looks a little like a deer caught in headlights.
Miranda turns in her seat to spear Jace with her best, do-as-I-say look. “Jace will just have to take you with him when he goes. Won’t you Jace?”
Jace looks from Miranda to me and back again. I can almost see the wheels turning in his brain as he tries to figure out a way to get out of taking me out on another date. Okay, so maybe I should still be at least a little offended.
“Uh… yeah, sure,” he answers hesitantly. Miranda sits back in her seat, satisfied with her solution, and I’m left wishing I never asked about the tickets in the first place.
Jace’s attention is on me. I can practically feel it, like a caress on my skin. I meet his gaze, noticing for the first time that his eyes are a warm honeyed amber color. I haven’t been close enough, with enough light to see the color by until now. His expression is unreadable. I can’t tell if he’s happy to be here or regretting coming.
I’m suddenly feeling ove
rly self-conscious. I look away, carefully setting my clutch purse in my lap and resting my hands over it, trying to think of something to busy myself with, so I don’t turn and stare—and possibly start drooling—at Jace for the entire drive. Miranda and Jameson are engaged in quiet conversation in the front seat, and I can make out bits and pieces, but don’t want to insert myself into a conversation that wasn’t intended for me. This is their date, and I don’t want to intrude.
I should try to make conversation with Jace. He is supposed to be my date after all, even if an unwilling one. “So, how long have you and Jameson been friends?” That’s, apparently, the best I’ve got. My cheeks heat, and I keep my gaze averted. No reason to make this situation worse by making eye contact.
“We met in high school,” he answers but doesn’t elaborate. “How about you and Miranda?”
“Since we were eight. It was a whirlwind wo-mance. She was new at school, and shy, and I was the kid who never stopped talking. On her first day, I saw her sitting quietly on the jungle gym at recess and started talking to her.”
“And hasn’t stopped since!” Miranda chimes in from the front seat.
“Har-har,” I return and place a hand on the shoulder of her seat. “You know you love listening to me talk. I’m the most interesting person in your life.”
“Truth.” She turns and pats my hand affectionately, then turns to my date. “But, I should warn you, Jace. She even talks in her sleep.”
I’m certain my eyebrows are in my hairline right now. Does she know what she’s just implied? Does he?
A quick glance at Jace confirms it. His smile is wide, and his eyes bright with laughter. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
Jameson chuckles, but keeps his attention on the road.
That’s it. I’m done trying to make conversation. We can spend the rest of the ride in silence if it means avoiding further embarrassment in front of what might possibly be the most beautiful and frustrating man alive.
CHAPTER FIVE
Jace
If I had known that Krystal was Jameson’s new girl’s friend and would be my date for the evening, I probably would have bowed out of tonight, asked Jameson to find someone else or even cancel. I don’t have anything against the girl, but even if I were dating right now, which I’m most definitely not, it wouldn’t be with her. Ever since we picked her and Miranda up from their dorm, Krystal has been a bundle of nervous energy. She’s high strung, like a chihuahua. And those little monsters bite. She probably does too.
Despite my brain telling me to stay away from her, though, my body finds her unfathomably attractive. When I first spied her walking toward Jameson’s SUV in that filmy white dress, my dick responded immediately, and sitting next to her in the backseat was tantamount to torture. I’d rather be waterboarded.
She isn’t wearing perfume, I don’t think, and the fruity coconut smell of her shampoo fills the air with the subtle scents of a beach vacation, which of course makes me think of her in a bikini.
My one comfort during the trip to the restaurant is that she seems equally as uncomfortable as I am. Maybe even more so. And we spend the majority of the ten-minute trek in silence while Jameson and Miranda converse and banter comfortably in the front seat.
Ambrosia’s is packed tonight, and we have to wait in a line of cars for several minutes before one of the valets is available to take the SUV to park. As soon as I see one heading toward us, I climb out of the vehicle and circle around the back of it to Krystal’s side, then open her door for her. She swings her legs to the side and starts a graceful slide off the seat, toes stretching toward the ground, but not quite reaching.
Her skirt, bunched up underneath her, starts to ride up with the movement, climbing higher on her hip the lower her body sinks off the seat. Too late, she realizes she’s about to flash everyone around us and reaches for her skirt. I step directly in front of her, pulling the car door with me, doing my best to protect her from any roving eyes of other guests, while also averting my gaze. Not that I don’t want to see what’s under that dress. I’m just not into peeping on a girl who hasn’t invited my attention. And the way Krystal is scrambling to cover herself makes it clear she most definitely does not want to be on display right now. So, I respect that, and keep my eyes averted until I hear a soft, “Thank you.”
When I look down, Krystal is standing demurely in front of me, perfectly composed and dress in perfect order. Her cheeks are pink, and she isn’t meeting my gaze, but when I hold out an arm to her, the same way that I did when walking her home the other night, she takes it. We’re barely three steps away from the car when she makes a quiet, “oomph,” sound, and her weight pulls on my arm. She stumbles, and in the heartbeat before she pitches forward onto the pavement, I manage to grab her, steady her. It isn’t until she is stable on her impossibly tall heels that I realize I have a handful of boob. I’m cupping her left breast intimately. It fits perfectly in my hand, and she’s not wearing a bra under all that sheer material, as evidenced by the peaked nipple brushing my palm. Any other time, I’d love to have a gorgeous woman’s breasts in my hands, but this is not the time, not the place, not the woman. I draw my hand back as if I’ve been burned by the touch. In a way I have. I can still feel the weight of her flesh in my palm, the press of her nipple against my skin.
I stuff my hand in my pocket, and clench it into a fist to try to dispel the sensation of touching her. Jameson is slower coming to the passenger side of the vehicle, having facilitated the vehicle’s handoff to the valet, so he and Miranda are a few paces behind us, and hopefully didn’t catch any of what just happened. Opening the door of the restaurant, I stand back to let everyone else in, and an older couple out. Then I step into the lobby behind my friends. Jameson is already at the reception podium, giving his name. A young host with short dark hair grabs a stack of menus, and in a voice that is deceptively deep for a guy who looks like he’s about thirteen says, “Right this way.”
He takes us to a semi-circular booth in what must be the darkest, most remote corner of the restaurant. Made for romance. I wonder if Jameson requested something romantic. It would be just like him to consider the ambience when making a reservation. The ladies slide into the booth from opposite sides and meet in the middle, where the seat curves into a U shape. I sit on the edge next to Krystal, and Jameson takes the seat next to Miranda. The host places the menus in front of us and backs away with a soft, “Anthony will be with you shortly.”
Almost immediately, a middle-aged man with a thin build and short, military-style hair steps up to the table. The long sleeves of his white uniform shirt don’t quite cover what looks like full tattoo sleeves, and a hint of black tribal art peaks out above the buttoned collar. “Good evening, I’m Anthony, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”
Miranda snickers, and I can’t help but bite back a smile at her sense of humor.
Anthony continues, unfazed. “Have you all dined with us before?”
Both Krystal and Miranda shake their heads, and Jameson says, “No, but I’ve heard great things.”
I keep quiet. I have been here before, but I doubt Krystal wants to hear that the last time I was here, I was about to propose to my then girlfriend of two and a half years.
“Great!” Anthony sounds entirely too cheerful as he reaches for the specials menu. “Let me tell you about our specials.”
I tune him out and focus on reading through the menu in my hands as he covers the details of the chef’s signature entrees and the wine pairings. That last part might be a little much. I’m fairly certain the girls are freshmen, which makes them too young to order alcohol, but I don’t tell him that. When he finishes his spiel, he goes around the table for drink orders and then practically skips away.
“Oh, this looks good,” I hear Miranda say quietly to Krystal. “But I’m also looking at this honey glazed salmon.”
Krystal looks over to where Miranda is pointing at her menu. “That does sound good!” She returns.
“You should get one, and I’ll get the other and we can share.” Miranda closes her menu and sets it on the table in front of her.
Krystal looks unconvinced. “I was thinking about getting sushi, actually.”
Miranda looks dejected for a moment, then contemplative, like she’s weighing the pros and cons of ordering two dinners for herself.
“I’ll share with you,” Jameson tells her, ever the gentleman, and her face lights up.
The waiter returns with our drinks and we order. I wrack my brain for something to say to Krystal, but what do I say during a date with a girl who I don’t want to date? I could flirt with her, as is my inclination, but I don’t want to give her the wrong impression. So, I settle instead for boring small talk. “So, Krystal, what’s your major?”
She looks up at me in surprise, like she didn’t expect me to actually speak to her. “Business. Hospitality management, specifically.”
“Ah, shooting for that corporate nine to five, huh?” Jameson perks up. He’s a business major too. I, on the other hand, have no enthusiasm for business. But I can pretend for the sake of making conversation. I lean forward and feign interest as Krystal answers him.
“Actually, my family owns a chain of restaurants back home. It started as one little mom and pop place owned by my grandparents, and Dad grew it to five locations and hopes to expand more. Since I’m going to take over the business someday, I figure I should probably try to learn all I can so I don’t let him down.”
“That’s really cool. What kind of restaurant is it?” I also don’t know anything about running a restaurant. But I know food.
She grabs the lemon off the rim of her glass and squeezes it into her tea as she answers. “Just typical American fare. It’s not like gourmet or anything, more like comfort foo—Ah, fuck!” Krystal jolts back, throwing a hand over her eye.
I immediately drop my menu and lean toward her. “What’s wrong?”