Three Last First Dates

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “I can feel a ‘but’ coming,” she said as we walked past the outdoor tables.

  “You’re right, there is a ‘but.’ I would like to handle this one myself.” I thought about something that would appease her, a smaller account where there was less at stake. “How about you come to my meeting with another customer this afternoon? They are looking for a new data solution, and I think you could add some value there.”

  She shrugged, clearly disappointed. “Sure, that would be great. Look, I don’t want to step on your toes or anything. I just want to get as much experience as I can before I get my own customer portfolio.”

  I smiled at her. “I get that. Let’s get back to the office and plan out how we’ll run this meeting this afternoon, okay?”

  “Sure. One thing. Is it okay if I head home for an early lunch? I’ll be back at my desk within the hour, I promise.”

  “You don’t need to ask me, I’m not your boss.”

  “You kind of are, or at least, that’s how I see you.”

  Wow, this girl was good.

  “It’s not a problem with me. I’ll see you back in the office.”

  I walked the rest of the way, enjoying my solitude—well, as much solitude as you can get in downtown Auckland on a weekday—and ran through the presentation I was planning to give to Pukeko Chocolates in my mind. I made a few mental notes as I went. Of course, my mind kept darting back to Nash, but I reined it back in, reminding myself I had a job to do and a huge deal to land.

  By the time I was back in the office, a good twenty minutes’ walk from the Cozy Cottage, I was almost positive Pukeko would be signing on the dotted line before the month was out. I just needed to get them over that line. I thought of their logo with the long-limbed native bird. I wanted this deal more than anything.

  I went straight to my desk and downloaded all the ideas I’d had on my walk, adjusting my presentation, and firing technical questions off to Bryce to ensure my ideas would work.

  When I finally came up for air, I got up to stretch my legs and grab a glass of water from the water cooler. I noticed a woman I’d never seen before, sitting at Antoinette’s desk, peering at her computer.

  “Ah, excuse me?” I said, approaching Antoinette’s desk. “I’m not sure you should be looking at that.”

  The woman swiveled around in the chair and smiled at me. “Hi, Marissa.”

  My jaw dropped open. It was Antoinette, only this person didn’t look anything like her. She was wearing an outfit that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Amish community—if they had platinum blond women with hair extensions there, that was. She was wearing a cover-all, olive sack-like dress, flat shoes, minimal makeup, and her hair was tied up in a severe bun. All that was missing from the ensemble was a bonnet, a pitchfork, and a horse and carriage.

  “Antoinette. You look . . . different,” I managed.

  She smoothed her already incredibly neat hair, patting her platinum bun. “I’m taking your advice. You said, ‘dress as unsexy as you can,’ and I figured this”—she glanced down at her baggy dress—“was pretty unsexy.”

  I was still slack-jawed, trying to get my head around the transformation. “I’m not sure I used those exact words.”

  “Oh, you definitely did.” She nodded at me, raising her eyebrows.

  “Well, I know I didn’t say dress like a nineteenth-century missionary!” Not that I had anything against nineteenth-century missionaries, of course. I’m sure they did some wonderful work, only, you didn’t come across them in corporate New Zealand all that often these days.

  “Oh, Marissa, you are silly.” She shook her head. “I’m just trying to emulate you, my role model.”

  I looked down at my own outfit. Although I wasn’t anywhere near the “put it all on display” ballpark Antoinette usually hung around in, I was equally far from looking like she did right now. I was a pencil skirt, heels, and blouse kind of girl at work, a cute jacket in winter. “Okay,” I replied, uncertainly. “Thanks . . . I guess.”

  I almost regretted talking to her about her appearance, although to be fair, she had asked me about it.

  Hadn’t she?

  She flashed her smile. Without that shovel-full of makeup, she actually looked really pretty.

  “So, we’re going to the client soon?” I nodded in response. She pulled out a notepad and pen. “Tell me all about it.”

  We went to the empty conference room, people shooting us quizzical looks as we walked across the sales team floor together. I took her through what we were trying to do with the customer this afternoon, suggesting she talk about our customer service offering while I tacked the solution details.

  “I would be honored,” she replied.

  “Great.” I formed my face into what I hoped was a smile as I wondered about Antoinette’s sanity. She was clearly a woman of extremes, throwing herself with happy abandon at an idea. We’d gone from Pamela Anderson to Mother Theresa with enough speed to give a girl whiplash, and I was still trying to wrap my head around it.

  Later that afternoon, and with a nervous knot in my belly, Amish Antoinette and I went to see Storage Plus, the customer we had been preparing for. I would love to have said her appearance didn’t turn heads and raise a few eyebrows, but that would be a barefaced lie. Storage Plus hadn’t seen Pam Anderson Antoinette, so I wondered if they simply assumed she was from some unusual religious sect. Whatever they thought, they simply went with it and seemed more than happy with our presentation. Antoinette nailed her section—which I heaved a huge sigh of relief over, I can tell you—and we left with a verbal agreement to proceed, subject to contract conditions.

  All in all, despite Antoinette’s strange transformation, the afternoon had worked out very nicely indeed. Things felt like they were on the up-and-up for me: Nash, work, everything.

  It was almost too good to be true.

  Chapter 11

  Saturday finally came around and it was time for date number four with Nash. I had impressed myself—and everyone else—by not having even one freak-out moment during the week. In fact, I had been quite the opposite. Every time I had thought of Nash, my chest would expand and my tummy would do flips.

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I asked, sitting in the passenger seat of Nash’s pickup truck as we made our way through Auckland’s busy Saturday traffic. “I think I spied your picnic basket in the back. Please tell me we’re going on another picnic and you didn’t just leave that in there with the old food and dirty dishes from last weekend, because that would be super gross.”

  Nash chuckled. The rich, deep sound made me warm inside. His laugh was something I absolutely loved about him. The way his eyes crinkled and his low, husky laugh reverberated through me . . .

  Back up the bus. Had I just said “love”?

  “It’s full of fresh food and wine and Diet Coke and cleaned dishes, so you can relax,” he replied.

  I cleared my throat. “That’s good to hear.” Yes, I would think about food, not my feelings. Much safer. “So, where are we headed?”

  Nash expertly backed the truck into a parallel park and switched the ignition off. “Here.”

  I peered out the windows at the busy shopping street, full of boutiques and cafés and fashionably dressed people. “Parnell?” I asked, totally confused. “It’s not exactly known as the city’s top spot for relaxed picnic dates, you know.”

  He laughed again, and my heart melted once more. Wow, have I fallen for this guy already?

  “Trust me,” he said with a wink.

  “Okay,” I replied uncertainly. I opened my door and hopped out onto the sidewalk. After the puppies wrecked my white skirt on our last date, I knew better than to wear typical date clothes with Nash. This time, I was dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, flats, a cute, loose top, and a long necklace.

  With the picnic basket in one hand, Nash took mine in his other and we sauntered along the street together.

  “Do we get to see the pups later?”
>
  “Absolutely. They’ve been asking after you.”

  “They have?” An image of the puppies requesting my presence popped into my head. They may have been wearing top hats and monocles in this image, and yes, my imagination had totally run away with me. “No, you’re being silly.”

  “Marissa, of course I’m being silly. They’re puppies, they can’t talk.” He paused, bent down, and kissed me on the lips.

  As he pulled away, I let out a contented sigh. So, this is what it feels like to be happy. Not that we’d had that “let’s date exclusively” conversation or anything. But I for one couldn’t imagine wanting to date anyone else. This simply felt too good, too right.

  Maybe I had fallen for him?

  In fact, I realized with a start, I hadn’t even checked Eddie’s Facebook page since Nash’s and my last date. Huh. Not checking up to see what Eddie was doing? That was major progress for me. I had to admit, I was proud of myself.

  We walked hand-in-hand down the street, past the boutiques, cafés, and restaurants, turning off and heading toward The Domain, a large, leafy, green park near Parnell.

  “Oh, I know where we’re going! A picnic in the park.”

  “With music,” he added. “We’re going to see Joey Cruikshank and Vi Edwards in concert at the Rotunda.”

  “We are?” My eyes got huge. Joey Cruikshank and Vi Edwards were two popular New Zealand musicians who sang beautiful ballads. Their music was so chill, perfect for a Saturday afternoon date with Nash. “Oh, that’s amazing. Thank you!”

  “I thought you might like them.”

  We arrived at the Rotunda where there was a sea of people, picnic blankets, and low chairs. The atmosphere was relaxed and happy—reflecting my own. We found a spot on the grass and set up. This time Nash had brought roast turkey and salad sandwiches with focaccia bread, some bagel chips and dip, and more of those delicious chocolate-dipped strawberries.

  I surveyed the spread. “You’re quite handy in the kitchen, aren’t you?”

  “I’d love to claim this was all me, but I bought it from the deli near my house.”

  “So, you’re not quite the perfect guy?”

  “Close?” He shrugged.

  We sat back and began to eat, chatting about our weeks and people watching, one of my favorite pastimes at these events. I was still marveling at how easy this was with him, how it hadn’t even occurred to me to let anything about him bother me, like it had on our first date.

  After we’d cleaned up the sandwiches, we fed one another the strawberries, laughing at how cheesy it was—cheesy and incredibly sexy, I would add. Despite being out in public, surrounded by a few thousand people, we lay facing one another, propped up on our elbows, side-by-side, our bare toes touching.

  “You know what?” He smiled at me.

  “What?”

  “I like you, Marissa Jones.”

  The trio of tap-dancing hamsters resumed their routine in my belly. “I like you, too, Nash Campbell.”

  He reached across and touched his fingers to my face. As he looked at me, his eyes were intense with the electricity that was zapping between us. I pushed myself up on my elbow and leaned down to kiss him. We were so lost in one another, we didn’t even notice the musicians arrived on the stage until the crowd around us erupted into claps and cheers.

  “I guess we should sit up and listen,” I said.

  “Shame. Kissing you has to be one of my favorite things to do.”

  We clapped along with the crowd as Vi Edwards stood on the stage in front of the microphone, her guitar slung across her body, looking every bit the folk music artist she was. As she began to play the first few chords of her latest release, the crowd erupted into fresh cheers. I couldn’t help but sing along.

  “You know you’re good at this, right?” Nash said loudly in my ear during the chorus of “My Sweet Angel.”

  “At what? Singing along to Vi Edwards’s music? Yeah, I think you’re right!”

  “I mean just singing. You have a beautiful voice.”

  “Aw, you’re just saying that because I’m such a good kisser,” I joked as heat rose in my cheeks.

  I knew I had a nice enough voice, and I could carry a tune. I had been one of those nerdy teenagers who loved being in choirs. I was a second soprano and used to travel the country competing in choral competitions, and sometimes we would even win. I had loved it, and it gave me a sense of belonging, a much-needed purpose during the craziness of puberty.

  The song ended, and people around us clapped and cheered.

  “No, really. I think you should do this Friday night gig thing at your friend’s place.”

  “Cozy Cottage Jam,” I corrected him, my belly twisting into a knot, right on cue.

  “Whatever,” he said with a chortle, shaking his head. “I think you should do it. ‘Feel the fear and do it anyway,’ and other inspirational bumper stickers.”

  Feel the fear was right.

  “Paige and Bailey have probably got their sessions fully booked by now, and I’m not a professional singer! I mean, yeah, I like it, but that’s hardly enough to . . . to get up in front of a roomful of people and sing.”

  He turned to face me as the musicians started up the next song. “Have you finished?”

  “Then there’s the fact I don’t have any material. I don’t even think I know all the words to any songs.”

  “Anything else?”

  I looked back at Nash. He raised his eyebrows at me, locking his eyes onto mine. I tried to think of something, but in the end, I simply shook my head as the knot wound around again inside.

  He put his hands on my arms, fixing me with his stare. “You know those are all just excuses. You’re passionate about singing, you told me so. Why don’t you just forget all this crap and give it a shot?”

  I opened my mouth to respond. I knew I was out of reasons. As I looked at his smiling face, a little seed of excitement began to grow inside me. Could I do it? Could I stand up in front of an audience and sing? It was something I had always imagined myself doing when I was a teenager. I would fantasize I had miraculously lost forty pounds overnight and had become a Faith Hill look-alike, captivating an audience with my voice and beauty.

  “I . . . I,” I stammered.

  “Say yes,” Nash encouraged.

  “Yes,” I said in a little voice, my lips forming a small smile.

  He cupped his ear with his hand. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  “Yes!” I yelled, laughing.

  We high-fived. “You are not going to regret this.”

  It may have been Nash, the music, the ambience, I don’t know. But in that moment, I believed him. I could do it, I could sing at the Cozy Cottage Jam, even if it scared the living daylights out of me.

  We spent most of Joey Cruikshank’s set swaying to his music and cleaning up the last of the strawberries. A few songs in, it began to cloud over, and there was a sudden distinct chill in the air.

  “I think it’s going to rain,” Nash said, looking up at the looming dark clouds.

  That’s the thing in Auckland: you can start the day off in brilliant and gorgeously warm weather, by lunch, it’s raining, and then it’s hot and humid for the afternoon. The song “Four Seasons in One Day” was written about this place, for good reason.

  A few drops landed on our bare arms, and then the heavens opened their floodgates.

  My hair!

  I spent time every morning straightening out my bobbed locks, ensuring they fell just so. Rain was the enemy. It made my hair look like it could comfortably house a large family of birds inside. Not pretty, not pretty at all. Not a lot of people had seen the natural state of my hair, and I wasn’t about to let Nash see it today.

  We quickly grabbed the food wrappers and drink bottles and stashed them safely away in the picnic basket. Nash scooped the blanket off the ground, and we sat side-by-side on the grass, huddled under it, listening to the music as people near us scattered far and wide.

  I
t was so romantic, just the two of us—that and a bit smelly and damp. The rain refused to let up, and after a while, it began to seep through the blanket where our bodies touched it. Growing increasingly uncomfortable, I reached up and smoothed down my hair. It was only a matter of time before it brought new depth of meaning to the word “frizz.” I needed the rain to let up so I could get back to the truck safely.

  In the end, I had no choice. We beat a hasty retreat, back to the sanctuary of Nash’s truck, me holding the picnic blanket over my head. Once inside, smelling of the rain, I pulled down the visor and peered in the mirror. My hair could give Little Orphan Annie a run for her money right now. I scrunched up my eyes and snapped the visor shut. Dammit!

  “Well, that was wet. Do you think it’s puppy time?” Nash said, turning and smiling at me. I noticed his expression changed as he took in my bedraggled appearance.

  Despite willing him not to notice my hair, I knew he had. How could he miss me looking like I’d joined an eighties soft rock band? “Don’t say anything!” I warned.

  A smile teased the edges of his mouth. “Nothing?”

  I pursed my lips and shook my head, angry. “I hate my hair.”

  His brows knitted together, he reached his hand across and took a curl in his fingers. “Why?”

  “Why? Are you serious?” I asked, almost choking. He had to be teasing me, and I didn’t like it one little bit.

  “Yes, I am serious. Okay, it’s bigger than you usually wear it, but it looks great. Wild, I guess.”

  I harrumphed.

  He slid his hand around the back of my head and brushed his lips against mine. “And really, really sexy.”

  “It does?” I squeaked.

  “It does.”

  And just to prove it, he kissed me again, tangling his fingers in my hair, making my whole body tingle.

  Eventually, after I’d seen every star in the galaxy dance before my eyes, he said, “You should wear it like this.”

  I shook my head. Nash may like my hair in its natural state, but I wasn’t anywhere near “there” yet. “Maybe,” I replied noncommittally.