28 Dates

by Stacey Lynn

  I pull out my phone and swipe a few pictures. While I’m looking for my favorite scribbled design so far, I tell her, “I’m looking into it. Not fully sure yet I have the capital, but you know that consignment store next door?”

  “Sweet Seconds? Yeah, of course I know it.”

  I find the picture and grin at her. “I think they’re closing. The landlord of the building has made more than one comment to me about how he doesn’t think they’re going to be able to re-up their lease.”

  Thin, red brows rise, and she sets her drink down next to mine. “And you want it?”

  “Yeah. It’s the perfect space. Small and it doesn’t have a kitchen, but it wouldn’t need one. But I could have a small stage up front for open mic nights or something. I could either open it all up together or keep a wall separating the bars with a walkway, but it’d keep the newer part quieter. It’d be separated but still one place.” I hand her the phone. “That’s my most recent idea.”

  Her fingers brush mine as she takes my phone. That familiar spark of chemistry hits my finger and slides up my arm, straight to my chest.

  It quickens as she zooms in on the photo. I take a sip of my drink to calm my nerves. Her opinion of me has always been far more important than I’ve ever showed her, but watching her study my dream rattles me.

  I might have been joking about there being a sommelier, sort of—I’d love to work with her, side by side—but expanding Dirty’s…it’s been something I’ve always dreamed of.

  She’s literally holding my dreams in the palm of her hand. Her tongue is poking out at the corner of her lips, the corners of those turned up. Brows are pulled together as she examines the drawing. She might need my help in explaining it to her. This particular one isn’t done on graph paper, and my handwriting has been compared to a doctor’s signature more than once or a thousand times.

  “Do you get it?” I ask.

  She raises a finger in the air. “Shh.”

  She turns the phone. I take a larger sip of my wine. Her fingers pinch together on the screen and separate, expanding something. She pulls it closer to her face, eyes narrowing. I drain the rest of my glass.

  “Caitlin?” It’s a small photo. It can’t take this long to examine. I assumed she’d glance, smile, and hand my phone back to me and give me an “Atta boy. Looks good.” I didn’t expect her to spend more time looking at it than I have since I drew it.

  “Hold on a sec,” she says. She turns the phone again and frowns, reaching for her wineglass and taking a sip. Her glass wobbles on the table as she sets it back down, and I grab it before it spills over. Her head pops up, and that tongue in the corner of her lips disappears. “I need some paper. I have an idea.”

  What? She sets down my phone and scurries off the couch. “Don’t go anywhere,” she calls out when she disappears down the hall. “I’ll be right back!”

  Like I can move. I’m paralyzed. What is she doing? My mind scrambles. I truly didn’t think my night over to see if she was doing okay would spiral so quickly into my plans for Dirty Martini’s, but hell if I’m not enjoying her excitement over my business.

  I come unglued from shock and go into the kitchen. Grabbing the bottle of wine, I bring it back to the living room and set it on the coffee table. I’m setting the bottle down after freshly refilling my own glass when Caitlin returns, file folder in one hand and a handful of colored markers in another.

  She points the hand filled with markers at the wine bottle. “Excellent idea. Now, I love what you’re thinking for Dirty’s, but I have some questions and a couple ideas came to my mind to make it even more awesome.” She waves her hands in the air. Papers swish and markers wiggle while her smile lights up the room. “So, how about it? Want to plan your future with me?”

  Excitement bubbles off her so much it’s contagious, and I doubt she realizes what she just asked me.

  Do I want to plan my future with her?

  Hell fucking yes I do.

  Chapter 11

  Caitlin

  Want to plan your future with me?

  Geez. Where’d that come from? If I could smack my forehead without being obvious I would, but since Jonas has this strange look on his face, I quickly focus on the paper in front of me.

  He’s joked around about expanding Dirty’s for so long, ever since he took it over a year ago, that I’m more than excited to help him. And sure, he didn’t really ask for my opinion, but he has to know by now I’m going to give it.

  I take his sketch and make it larger, the perfectionist in me drawing it closer to scale. I’m sitting on the floor, feet tucked under me, and as I scratch his drawing, I can feel the weight of his gaze on me as he drinks his wine. Then I draw an exact replica of the bones of the space without the bars and stage and table he’d drawn in the first one.

  Once finished, I take a sip of my own wine and wave him over. “Come here.”

  The warmth of his body is so close to me I fight a shiver as he takes a spot next to me, settling down and stretching out his long legs beneath the coffee table. One of his arms slides along the couch cushions behind me. We’re so close his thigh is pressed against mine and I scoot over. The minuscule space I set between us does absolutely nothing to quell my rapidly beating heart.

  He smells so good. All man. It takes everything I have to turn my head and meet his eyes. “I love your idea.”

  Has my voice gone raspy? It has. I clear my throat and sip my wine.

  His grin is lopsided. “Yet you want to change it.” He nods toward the paper. “Go on. Let’s see the master at work.”

  I’m far from a master, but my fascination with numbers and math helps me with angles and plans. It’s all concrete.

  His vision is to take over the building to the right of Dirty Martini’s where the current space and existing bar share a wall. “Well, you have the brick wall staying, but what if you keep the support pillars, which would have to be somewhere along this wall, and knock the whole thing down? Then you can make the wall separating the actual spaces plexiglass, or something else that you can see through but still helps protects the noise. It’d make everything seem larger. And this stage here—” I point to his original drawing and cross it out. He has it on the long-sided wall, which looks cool, but it takes up too much seating. I’ve spent time in that consignment store and it’s pretty narrow.

  “If you move the stage to this front corner, you can still set tables on it when you’re not having music nights, but it would be further from the walkway between the spaces so the noise would be muted for folks in Dirty’s.”

  His arm moves, brushes over my shoulder as he leans close, and points to the back area. “What’s this?”

  My mind is muddled. His hand is at my back, sitting there, and I’m certain it’s unintentional, or casual, but everything inside of me sizzles. It takes me a moment to see he’s pointing at the back hallway. In his drawing it has extra storage, which he’ll need some of. “Bathrooms. Convert the dressing room area currently there, and you can double the amount of restrooms, which will keep lines down since the hallways are so narrow.”

  We keep scribbling. He listens to my idea, we discuss whether or not the costs and possibilities in the drawings are even feasible for his budget, but the whole time, I’m not only growing more excited about this, I’m impressed with his knowledge. This isn’t just a dream for him, he’s planning for it, and he knows the expenses he can handle down to the dollar.

  I sketch out a row of pendant lights with clear glass balls that would look fantastic over the new wood bar and set my pens down. “There. It looks awesome.”

  He’s silent for a moment, sipping his wine. I finish my glass, and before I can pour a fresh one, he has the bottle in his hand, filling my glass. He hasn’t even looked at me and yet he knows what I need. It’s uncanny how close we can be, and somehow on completely different pages.

  And it’s this moment. With Jonas so close to me, his cologne invading my senses and his hand on my body in the most
platonic way possible, emotion lodges in my throat.

  I’ve never wanted a man, and yet have I been fooling myself into thinking I’m not falling in love with Jonas Reeves? Was the largest mistake I’ve ever possibly made in my entire life sending him away?

  And God, none of this can be true. He’s broken up with Ashley, and he hasn’t given me a single hint of still being attracted to me.

  This. This is why love sucks. Everyone who falls ends up disappointed. Or worse. My own family is testament to that.

  He turns his head, and I try to quickly blank my expression. “What do you think?”

  “It’s a risk. A big one.”

  He’s talking about the restaurant. I’m thinking about us. Or me being willing to finally risk handing my heart to someone. “It could be worth it.”

  “Yeah?”

  His eyes are heavy-lidded. And he’s so damn close it wouldn’t take much to lean in and press my lips to his. To slide my fingers through his hair, press my hand to his neck or shoulder.

  I blink and stare at the paper. I’m such a coward. We’re talking about his career, not my realizations that have come six months too late. Tracing my finger along the outline of the space he wants to lease, I reply. “I don’t know, Jonas, sometimes I think with risks, you just have to jump in and hope they end up being worth it, even if you’re scared as hell of them.”

  “Yeah.” He leans back and stretches out both of his arms, taking his hand off me, and his head falls back. He scrubs his hand over his face and through his hair. “Who knows what I’ll do.”

  His eyes are closed, and even through his uncertainty, he looks serene. Beautiful with his straight nose and slight scruff lining his strong jaw. I’ve stared at his profile an infinite amount of times and he’s always the most attractive man I’ve ever met. But I still miss his hair. “Why’d you cut your hair?”

  Yes. That’s me. I blurt it out without thinking. Smooth, nincompoop.

  His lips curve and his eyes open, sliding toward me. “Staring at me?”

  Obviously. “No.”

  I flip over a piece of paper. It’s not my business anyway, so I doodle on the blank side of the paper. Stupid. So stupid. Yet he’s teasing me.

  Ugh. This whole day has been a mindfuck.

  “I miss it,” he says, his voice low and all trace of teasing gone. “I’m thinking of growing it back.”

  For some reason, that makes my heart flutter. I nod, continue doodling, and yet as I realize what I’m drawing, it’s other variations of the stage and the bar and the new layout. God, I won’t stop thinking of this until he actually does it now.

  “I liked it.” I can’t look at him. If I do, I’m too afraid of what he’ll say. My face is hot and my skin is itchy. He came over to talk about my day, and all we’ve talked about are his dreams for the bar. Which is just as well because I don’t want to give any more thought to Isaac or Michael or the stupid app I wish I had never agreed to do in the first place.

  “Yeah?” He asks the question and I can’t help it. I turn my head to him, meet his eyes, and that flutter in my heart turns to a jackhammer against my rib cage. And if I’m not mistaken, his gaze lowers to my mouth before slowly lifting.

  I turn away, jumping so quickly at the emotions swarming and threatening to take over I bump the table.

  We both reach out, grab the wineglasses and bottle before it tips, but papers scatter and my pens roll over the edge.

  “Oh. Shoot.” I scamper to my feet and pick everything up, holding the stack of pens and paper to my chest like a protective vest. Which is stupid. What am I protecting? My heart from him? Or him for getting screwed up by me? That’s not even a possibility. He’s already moved on. I slide through the papers and pull out the ones we’ve worked on, setting them on the table. “I’m going to put this away.”

  Like the coward I am, I hurry to my office and take a few deep breaths to get myself under control.

  This is madness. Everything I’m feeling for him. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve had sex. Six months is a long time to only have a battery-operated device taking care of my needs.

  That’s it. That’s most definitely the problem.

  With another harsh exhale that I feel down to my stomach, I head back out to my living room. I can be normal. I can do this friends thing. It’s what I wanted anyway, and above all, Jonas is an excellent friend.

  When I reach the room though, all my common sense flees. He’s in the kitchen, rinsing out the wineglasses, and the papers I left on the table are gone.

  “I should get going,” he calls out. His back is to me at the sink and he’s already put on his chocolate brown jacket. “It’s getting late and I know you work in the morning.”

  Oh. I check the clock above my fireplace and cringe. It’s almost midnight. Has he really been here for hours? Wow.

  “Right, of course.” I head toward my door, meeting him there. The papers aren’t in his hands, either, and disappointment flutters through me until he pats his chest, like he knows what I’m thinking.

  “I’ve got the plans though and I have to tell you, I feel like I kind of failed tonight.”

  “Failed?” Huh?

  “Well, I came over to see how you were after today, and we spent the whole time talking about me.”

  “I don’t mind. I liked it and trust me, it took my mind off the day, so thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Caitlin.” He steps closer into my personal space. My head tilts back to meet his eyes, and I swear, for a second, I see that desire he used to have for me swirling in his rich, chocolate eyes. “Anytime you need me, I’m here. You know that, right?”

  I need him now. The area between my thighs is throbbing with need for him, and my fingers itch to pull him close to me, grab his coat, and yank him until his mouth slams down onto mine.

  And why can’t we? We’re both single. Except I’m not supposed to even know that. Ugh. What a mess.

  “I know, Jonas. Thanks for coming by.” I force my mouth to smile but it feels wrong. “It was good hanging out with you.”

  “You too.”

  He steps closer again, and his head tilts. To kiss me? I wish. I really, really do. My breath catches. My body shivers as his hand lands on my shoulder. He curves it over and squeezes, and I consider shifting, pressing my lips to his, but at the last second, I’m too damn chickenshit.

  His lips brush against my temple and that hand squeezes on my shoulder before he steps back, sliding his hands into the pocket of his jeans. “Good night.”

  He turns and opens the door, nodding at me as he steps into the hallway. My libido demands for me to call out to him, to throw myself at him. My common sense whispers it’s a bad idea. It will only lead to rejection, because that’s exactly what he’s done.

  With that brief kiss and hand squeeze, he’s permanently etched me into the friend zone.

  Which is what I wanted all those months ago, so it really is my own damn fault. I close and lock the door behind him, pressing my back to the door. And for the first time since I can remember, tears gather in my eyes and fall down my cheeks.

  God, I’ve royally screwed this up something fierce.

  Chapter 12

  Caitlin

  Logan: I’d like to meet you. Drinks tomorrow night?

  The phone heats my hand, and I toss it to the couch. Wiping my palms down my thighs, I shove my head back into the couch. This Logan guy is nice. Like, super nice. He’s texted me photos of him hiking mountains in Utah, and exploring the Grand Canyon, partying it up with his friends in Vegas. He plays in a men’s lacrosse team in a city park on weekends. Three sisters, parents still happily married.

  He’s the nicest, most all-American guy I’ve spoken to yet on this stupid app that’s driving me crazy. Not because I’ve met any other creep. It’s this guy and one other, the mysterious one who randomly messages me funny facts like “Did you know in Michigan it’s legal to hunt for unicorns?” who I feel most pulled to.

 
Those always make me laugh even if I still have little knowledge of who he is.

  And then there’s Logan. Nice. Handsome. Hot, actually. And I like talking to him.

  But that’s all I feel. Like. Nice. No spark. No excitement when he texts me good morning. No real smile or inside flutter when he asks about my day. We’ve been talking for a week. Here and there, sometimes for hours, but none of our messages back and forth have felt like an interview…just a text with a friend. I’m not on this app to find a friend.

  I don’t even know why I’m on the app at all anymore. I’ve been a mess since Monday after Jonas left. I haven’t even been able to bring out my battery-operated friend for fear of only being able to orgasm thinking of Jonas. He hasn’t texted me since, and I haven’t stopped into Dirty’s all week.

  I’m in full avoidance mode, but I have to get over that. If Logan wants to meet for drinks, there’s only one place I feel comfortable going.

  I press the heels of my palms into my closed eyes and groan. “And you’ll never know if there can be more unless you reply, you idiot.”

  I’m being stupid and ridiculous. I’ve promised myself I would try to let someone in. Logan comes across as the kind of guy who would not only welcome it, but wants it. Wants me.

  I text him back, already knowing he lives on the west side of Portland but hopefully close enough to downtown.

  Caitlin: Dirty Martini’s? 7 p.m.?