“I should go, Chris. But thanks again. This is awesome.”
There. I’ve got plenty of self-control, and he surely can’t read my mind and know I was about to become liquid heat for him.
“Yeah, watch out for cats,” he says, and that’s all. That’s it. No flirty comeback that says his imagination is running wild too.
Then it hits me. A guy like this – successful, hot, and totally talented – must have a girlfriend. He must have many girlfriends. He has that California ease about him, a laid-back charm that reels girls in.
As I walk away, he calls out casually, “Or maybe the cat will pee on your iPod.” I look back, meeting his gaze even from several feet away as he adds, “If I’m lucky.”
I drive to Golden Gate Park with those three words playing on repeat. If I’m lucky. If I’m lucky. If I’m lucky.
Then I tell myself he’s just a flirt. Because there’s no other reasonable explanation.
Chapter Five
All I can say is Andy was wrong.
Because there is nothing pathetic about Meter Man.
Nothing at all. At least from a distance. He is walking toward me right now and I like the way he walks, I like the way he moves.
I’m camped out on a bench in front of Shakespeare Garden, surrounded by the ponds and hills and bike paths of Golden Gate Park. Though Shakespeare Garden has a big name, it’s a little spot, maybe the size of a large backyard or a private courtyard. Twin columns frame wrought-iron double gates, a brick walkway cuts across the garden, and a sundial stands in the middle.
I like this spot for many reasons, but especially because Todd and I never went to Shakespeare Garden in all our time together. It’s untouched by the enemy.
I met Todd because we took the same bus to work every morning, him to his PR shop and me to the fashion brand, Violet Summers, I worked at before I started my blog. Almost every morning I watched Todd get on the bus, slightly disheveled, wearing a blue, white, or blue-and-white striped button-down Oxford cloth shirt and khaki pants. He always sat in the same spot, two seats from the front of the bus. I started inching closer, a seat a day. Two weeks later, I was in the seat behind him.
“Nice day, isn’t it?” I said.
“Yeah, and that’s quite a feat in this town.” He turned around, his elbow resting on the back of the seat. “You know what Mark Twain said about San Francisco?”
His eyes lit up, he was excited, like he was about to share the coolest, most unusual quote in all of literature with me. But like everyone else who’s ever set foot in San Francisco, I knew it by heart, so I said loudly, “The coldest winter I ever spent was summer in San Francisco.”
He smiled back, his light blue eyes twinkling mischievously. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds and his sneaky silence unnerved me. Then he said, “Not that one. This one.” Then he quoted the Mark Twain saying that no one ever quotes about San Francisco, but one that is more beautiful, more original, more sexy. “It is the land where the fabled Aladdin's Lamp lies buried – and she, San Francisco, is the new Aladdin who shall seize it from its obscurity and summon the genie and command him to crown her with power and greatness and bring to her feet the hoarded treasures of the earth."
I felt warm all over, lured into his gaze, his charm. He wasn’t like every other straight guy in San Francisco who rattled off the Mark Twain summer-winter line as if he were the cleverest male in all the universe. Todd was clever, he was charming, he was smart. He knew something other people didn’t know.
Sweetly, he added, “I like that one better.”
We chatted until my stop. As I stood up I reeled off the one San Francisco quote I knew. “You know what Oscar Wilde said? Anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco.”
“Don’t disappear. Have dinner with me this weekend.”
“I won’t. And I will.” Then I hopped off the bus and counted down the hours until the weekend.
I cringe now at the memory, but that was all it took back then. I have always fallen first for cleverness, for smarts, for wit. Looks have been secondary.
That’s about to change, I tell myself, because looks are clearly where Dave Dybdahl excels. He is ridiculously handsome. He’s wearing jeans, work boots and a white ribbed tee-shirt. Twin straps from a purple Jansport backpack line his shoulders. Even from a distance, even from twenty feet away, I can tell – heck, anyone within eye-goggling distance can tell – he is fantastically cut. His shirt isn’t snugly, but it’s near enough to his body so I can make out the firmness of his pecs underneath the fabric, the absence of any fat on his belly, the slight bulge of his biceps peeking out right where the shirt sleeves end.
His body isn’t the only thing chiseled. As he nears me, I take in his well-designed face again, like a model, an escort, with Johnny Depp-esque cheekbones, deep blue eyes and a subtle wave in his brown hair. I take my headphones out of my ears and gently lay my iPod on the bench. I smile, a little nervously, and stand up. I am not sure what the proper protocol is – shake hands or hug? I rack my brains trying to remember how a first date usually starts. It’s been eons, entire evolutionary stages it seems, since I last went on a date. I could say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, mess up the secret handshake that experienced daters know, a sure cue I’m a newbie. I’m probably on some Do Not Date list, like that Do Not Call List.
I err on the side of friendliness, reaching out for a quick, short hug, his hands touching my hair briefly.
“Hey there to you,” Dave says.
“Good to see you again.”
I sit down on the bench. He follows suit. I reach for my iPod, tucking it safely away in the small lime green vinyl purse I switched to for the date. The purse is covered in yellow lettering listing “hello” and “goodbye” in a smattering of foreign languages. It’s my date purse. This purse hasn’t gotten any action in years.
“Were you just bopping out on your iPod?” Dave asks.
Bopping out?
But at least we have the iPod icebreaker to get the conversation going. “Billie Holiday. I love the classics. I’m kind of a retro girl.” I gesture to my shirt.
He nods a couple times. A thoughtful look descends on his face, like he’s considering what I just said. “I gotta admit, I’m pretty good with music. But you stumped me right there. I don’t know him. What does Billy boy sing?”
“No, no. Billie’s a girl. Billie’s a lady actually. You know Lady Day, first lady of jazz?” I say to prompt him, trying to jog his memory. I’ve got to believe the gears in his brain simply sputtered for a moment, hit a tiny roadblock. He’ll get back on track, I tell myself. So I keep going. “You know she sang You Go To My Head, Embraceable You, These Foolish Things?”
He shakes his head a few times and lets out a deep breath. “Damn. You just really got me there. Who does she sound like? Katy Perry? Rihanna? Beyonce?”
“Love those ladies, but yeah, I’m gonna have to say none of them.”
So what if we don’t have the same taste in tunes? It’s not the end of the world. Focus instead on his firm, sculpted body. “So, did you have to work today?” I ask. Meters, after all, can be violated on weekends too.
“No, but I did take a training class this morning.”
I brighten. I love to learn new stuff. “What did you learn?”
“It was fascinating.” He leans forward on the bench, closer to me. His eyes really are magnetic. They’re like the color of a clear blue sky, a sapphire even. “You see, there are sections of the city that are moving to resident-only parking during certain times of the day, but at other times of the day, other people, not just the residents, can park there too. But on weekends, you see, it’s only the residents. But during the day, like, anyone can park there. So it’s just really, you know, it’s just you need to focus on when the cars are illegally parked and when they’re not.” He furrows his brow.
I nod a few times, waiting for him to explain the part of this that seems so complicated to him. Dave closes his eyes for a second, sq
ueezing them shut, repeating a mantra, “Residents only – only residents can park. Other times – anyone can park.” He opens his eyes and breathes out. “Yep. Yep. Sometimes I need these little sayings to help me remember.”
“Like a mnemonic device.”
He purses his brow. “Like pressurized air and stuff?”
I shake my head. “No, that’s pneumatics,” I say, pausing for a moment to tuck my hair behind my ears. “You know, it’s like a memory aid?”
“A memory aid!” He’s excited, delighted at the idea. “That’s great. That is exactly what I need.”
“Well, that’s what a mnemonic device is. It’s like ROYGBIV to help you remember the colors of the rainbow.”
“This is so great!” He slaps his thigh in excitement. “Where do I get one of those?”
I breathe in, trying to center myself. Focus on his eyes. Focus on his biceps, his belly, his pecs. Focus on anything other than what’s coming out of his mouth. A good body can cover up a lot of flaws. A centerfold physique can mask a poor intellect, I try to tell myself.
“Yeah, you don’t buy them. It’s just something you use, a saying, for instance, to help you remember.”
“Cool beans.”
“So, Dave, what’s next after being a parking meter attendant?”
His eyes light up. “You know, I think I’d really like to be a parking consultant.”
“Really?” I’m going to need to just zero in on his eyes and hair right now. Wait, I have a better idea. I’m going to think about him without a shirt because that may be the only way I will make it through this date. “What does a parking consultant do exactly?” I ask, resting my arm on the back of the bench and pretending Dave is taking off his shirt. That’s right, one sleeve off, then the other, then the shirt goes over your head.
“You know, I’m like not entirely sure, but I just gotta think there’s a need for someone, like a real expert to consult on parking matters.”
Just toss that shirt on the ground right now. “Oh sure, parking matters. That’s gotta be huge.”
His eyes light up. “You think so?”
“Definitely,” I fib. Just undo that belt buckle next and maybe the button on your jeans too. “Huge demand for parking consultants.”
“Yeah, so maybe, I could get an office and start a web site.”
“Absolutely,” I say enthusiastically. Now just stand up and unzip those jeans and loosen them. Yep, drop them on the ground. “And advertise your services too,” I add, keeping him going.
He snaps his fingers and tosses his head back, amazed at my seeming brilliance. “Like on billboards around town. That is such a great idea!”
Oh it is, indeed, so just stand there now for a minute in your snug black boxer briefs and let me gaze.
“Hey, what are the colors of the rainbow? That ROYGBIV thing?”
The words that come out of his mouth are a gigantic buzzkill. So I put his clothes back on. The jeans come up, now they’re zipping, the button is going back in its button hole, the shirt comes back down over his oh-so-wonderfully sculpted abs – I feel a momentary pang as I say goodbye to them – and then I mentally tuck his shirt back in.
He’s not Chris. He’s not even close. I can’t even undress this guy in my imagination. Call me crazy, but I want the complete package. Brains, humor, looks, hands and tongue and lips that turn me inside out, and most of all, a kind heart.
“Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet.”
* * *
“How can I put this tactfully? He wasn’t exactly playing with a full deck, know what I mean?” I state as I take another drink of my Purple Snow Globe, a new drink Julia is testing out on me at her home away from home, Cubic Z in the SOMA neighborhood where she tends bar. It’s got raspberry juice, gin and sugar crystals on the rim.
“Like missing a card or two, or maybe an entire suit?”
“Jules, he could have had an eight-incher and I wouldn’t have cared.”
Julia raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever had an eight-incher?”
I shake my head. “Not that I know of.”
“Let me tell you something, sister. It’s not like you need to break out the ruler to know when it’s eight inches. You just know.”
I place the martini glass down on the counter and look straight at her. “You’ve had eight inches?”
“Why do you think I dated Donovan three times? It wasn’t his conversational skills,” she says, then tells me she’ll be right back. A customer at the other end needs a refill.
Julia is, quite simply, a heartbreaker. First, she’s sexy and curvy and has that kind of reddish-auburn hair that drives men wild. Second, she’s a bartender. Men dig that. They think a chick who can mix drinks is manna from heaven and Julia is. That’s why Donovan kept returning to her. She kept going back to him because he was, evidently, endowed with a Magic 8. But she wanted other attributes kicking on all cylinders too.
“All I am saying is,” Julia begins after she’s returned to my corner of the bar, “Looks and, well, you know, size, aren’t all that. You’ve got to be able to have a conversation with a guy. When I find someone I can actually talk to that’s when I’ll know I’ve found the one.”
I flash back to Chris, to our easy conversations in the store, and earlier today by the beach. Fine, we only chatted for a few minutes each time, but there was something sort of instant in our connection. The kind of quick banter and repartee that makes a girl think of possibilities, of days and nights, and music and laughter. That makes a girl think songs were written for them. As I take another swig of her concoction, I let myself linger on those words again. If I’m lucky.
Did he mean those words? Was that some subtle way of saying he wants to see me again?
I click on the browser on my phone and go to his Web site. The connection in this bar is molasses slow, so the page won’t fully load, but his picture appears.
I can’t help myself. I smile. My stomach executes a teeny-tiny flip. I trace a line across his face. He’s so handsome, with that sun-kissed hair, and his bright green eyes. He has this fabulous smile, like he’s a happy guy, like life is good, and he’d bring nothing but pleasure and wit and great conversation into my life. I should call him. I should email him. I should ask him out on a date. We could be so good together, we could sail off into the moonlight.
And there I go, in my imagination. Time slows, and the bar disappears, and it’s just Chris and me. He’s taken me out for coffee, or dinner, or a movie. Or better yet – a round of Candyland at the kitchen table. We could even invent our own rules that involve kissing every time you have to go back a few spaces.
Or more.
Kissing that leads to so much more. I close my eyes, and picture a kiss that starts sweet and soft and slow. Then, his hands cup my face as if he’s claiming me, saying you’re mine with his lips and his hands and the way he draws me in close, his thumb tracing a line along my jaw. It’s such a small gesture, but such a poetically possessive one and I arch my back, inviting more. In one swift move, he pulls my chair to him, sliding me between the V of his legs. His fingers thread their way into my hair, and I lean into his hands, reveling in the way they feel against the back of my head, as if he’s holding me in the exact way he wants me, in the exact way I want to be held. My breaths grow louder as he kisses me hard, craving the taste of my lips crushed against his. A groan escapes him, telling me he doesn’t want to stop; he only wants more of me.
He breaks the kiss, stands, and reaches for my hips, quickly pulling me up. I sway, still lightheaded and probably will be days. But he steadies me with one hand on my waist, and he looks at me with such dark desire in his eyes, with a fierce kind of hunger as if he has to have me, touch me, be with me.
One look like that and I am his for the asking. For the taking. My heart pounds harder and my pulse speeds.
It’s clear we’re not playing Candyland anymore. We’re going off the board, he’s shoving the game and all the pieces to the floor in
one strong sweep of his arm. The cards and the markers scatter, clinking on my floor, and I don’t care about anything else except the the way he lifts me up on the table, and moves his hand from my throat to my chest to my waist, as if he knows instinctually how much I love having my hips touched, like he knows all the spots on my body that can drive me wild without me even having to tell him. He can find them in the dark, without a map. He needs no direction. The playbook to my body is in him, his head, his heart, his hands. He knows what I want. He knows how I like it. He wants to give it to me. Soon, I’m breathless, and we’re chest to chest, hips to hips, and I’m grasping at him, my hands sliding around to his perfect ass, so round and firm, and I grab hold of him, desperately needing the friction of his body against mine, even though we’re fully clothed. His hands explore me, feathering against the exposed skin of my thighs, then sliding inside the hem of my skirt. Teasing, tempting, inching higher, and if he keeps going like this I am going to lean my head back and gasp in pleasure. Something I’m dangerously near to doing as his fingers reach the deliciously agonizing point where I want him most. Discovering how ready I am for him. Wickedly delighting in knowing I am full of a crazy kind of longing for him, that my body calls out for his. Oh, I could so cry out his name right now, let him have me, take me, taste me. Let the world know he drives me wild.
Then I stop the fantasy from going any further. A guy like that – funny, charming, into video games – would never be into a gal like me.
Besides, there is no moonlight.
Chapter Six
I stare at my computer screen, as if the solution to finding a guy who’ll fill my heart with gladness and take away all my sadness lies somewhere in the machine. Because Meter Boy was a bust, and Craigslist is not my cup of tea, and I don’t know where to go next. It’s not as if I’m terribly good at the bar pick-up scene. Does that even work anymore? I haven’t a clue about how to date, let alone how to run a dating contest. Why did I ever think I could pull this off? I’m a fashion blogger. I know which shirts go with skirts, and where to find the screaming deals. I don’t know about men anymore.
Trophy Husband Page 6