Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6)

by Penny Reid

  I was hopeful . . . and confused.

  My first clue that things were seriously amiss was my growing preoccupation with buying things for him. Everywhere I went, I saw items I wanted to get him. A Robocop mug (robomug). A Space Invaders tie. An Ultron bathrobe.

  I did end up buying the Space Invaders tie. It was on sale. Yep. So I actually saved money when I bought it.

  Right.

  Currently, it was Thursday night and Matt had texted me again, this time to see if I was dead, or if I wanted to eat dinner. Once more, his timing was impeccable. My copy of The Cuddle Sutra had just arrived in the mail that afternoon and I needed a partner to try out the positions.

  Although at first, Matt and I spent time together because of his research, but that hadn’t been the case for weeks. He’d call because he was hungry for something coconut. Then because of a movie we both wanted to see, or a bar that had good cocktails.

  Pretty soon, we were hanging out frequently and texting multiple times a day. It was like having a boyfriend, but without the sex. Or commitment.

  Except, we did touch. A lot. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Sometimes he’d kiss me on the neck if he was embracing me from behind. We even held hands when out in public.

  Unless I was misreading Matt completely, I thought maybe, possibly, he was starting to feel something for me beyond just simple attraction. Sure, he hadn’t said anything, but he was just so . . . so . . . big sigh.

  Brilliant and affectionate, and hilarious—so hilarious—and handsome—so handsome—and just wonderful.

  I felt like maybe our friendship was on the precipice of becoming something more. If additional cuddling didn’t push things—and him—in the right direction, then nothing would.

  Marie: You can come over but I’ll need you to help me with something.

  Matt: What?

  Marie: Cuddle positions.

  Matt: I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

  Matt arrived with his laptop and a 1.75L bottle of Patron Silver. For margaritas.

  “Or shots?” he suggested with a grin, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  I took the gigantic bottle from him. “I’ve never seen a tequila bottle this big before.”

  “That’s disappointing. We should hang more.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, laughing at him as he trailed me into my apartment. “We hang out all the time.”

  “Clearly, it’s not enough if this is the first time I’ve exposed you to the correct size of a Patron bottle.”

  “Well then, thank you. I expect you to help me drink it.” Setting the huge container on the counter, I grabbed the small garment box I’d tucked away earlier and handed it to Matt. “Here, this is for you.”

  He accepted the gift hesitantly, shooting me a confused but delighted look. “What’s this for?”

  “No reason. Just open it.” I tucked my hands under my chin and watched him, not even trying to hide my big, goofy smile.

  Matt opened the box and I was happy to see how his eyes widened with pleased surprise. “Space Invaders! On a tie,” he yelled.

  “I know,” I yelled.

  “I love it.” Matt bent and gave me a hug. “I will wear it all the time. I should put it on now.”

  As he straightened, I shook my head. “No. Save it for a special occasion, when you want to make a good impression. It’ll be your lucky tie.”

  Though he’d purchased several outfits the day we went to Hugo Boss, I hadn’t yet seen him in any of them. Tonight for example, he was wearing his usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans, with the T-shirt being a schematic of a Dalek.

  Still smiling, his gaze warm with good feelings as it moved over me, he tucked the box in his bag. “Marie, you are the sine to my cosine.”

  My eyelashes fluttered and so did my heart, but I managed to tease, “Are you saying we’ll never be on the same wavelength?”

  He moved his head to the side as though considering my words. “More like, we complement each other. In basic trigonometry terms, cosine is the sine of the complementary or co-angle.”

  “I took trigonometry in high school. All I remember is pi r squared.”

  “I would argue that pie are round, but whatever gives you a right angle.” He shrugged.

  I laughed, even though the joke was painfully punny, and my hopes took his words as permission to start the countdown clock on their evil little space rocket.

  “So,” he rubbed his hands together, “about those margaritas.”

  We didn’t have margaritas or shots, sadly.

  Instead we ate while we worked—him on the couch with his feet propped up on the ottoman, me on the floor again—and listened to The Police on vinyl. But this time I kept sneaking peeks at him, watching how he shoved his hands into his hair every so often. I guessed whenever he encountered a problem, he sent it in all different directions. I also noticed how nice his hands were, and his chin.

  I chided myself for not admiring his chin prior to now.

  What is wrong with you? The man has a magnificent chin. And jaw.

  Truly. I was in love with his jaw, or at the very least I had a crush on it.

  We’d long finished dinner and had been working for a good hour when he suddenly asked me, “Why did your boyfriend break up with you?”

  I glanced up from my laptop and peered at him, unsure I’d heard the question correctly. Here I was, mooning over his exquisite jaw, and there he was, thinking about my ex-boyfriend.

  Was that a good sign?

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your ex-boyfriend. David.” He lifted his magnificent chin toward the engagement party invite on the top of my mail stack by the door. “The one who invited you to his party, the one—”

  “Yes. I know who he is.”

  “Why’d he do it?”

  Tilting my head from one side to the other, I searched the air around me for a succinct way to explain all the ways our relationship had failed.

  “You cheated?” he guessed, his look full of suspicion.

  The question made me flinch. “What? No! No, I didn’t cheat. I wouldn’t do that. If I wanted out of a relationship, I’d just be upfront about it. I don’t understand cheating, as a concept. Why not just leave?”

  “Agreed.” He set his laptop on the ottoman and stood, meandering to the untouched bottle of Patron and opened it.

  My kitchen was so small, he was able to open the bottle, then shift his weight to one side in order to grab a glass. My eyes strayed to where his shirt lifted, exposing his firm stomach and one side as he reached for the tumbler.

  I felt a little lightheaded.

  I also swallowed, rather than drool on myself.

  “I don’t understand cheating either. Do you want some?” He indicated to the tequila.

  “No. Thank you.” I was already light-headed enough, the last thing I needed was a shot of tequila. On autopilot, I added, “Cheating and lying make no sense.”

  Matt poured himself two fingers of tequila and shook his head at my statement. “No. I understand lying.”

  This statement shocked me out of my Matt-body-appreciation trance. “You understand lying?”

  “Yes.” He tossed back the clear liquid, then puckered his lips, shaking his head quickly. “Whoa. Do you have any lemons?”

  “Tell me,” I requested, enormously curious as to why Matt thought lying in relationships was permissible, and combating a sensation of unease at this revelation. “Tell me why you think lying is okay.”

  “I didn’t say it was okay. But I understand why people do it.”

  “Why do they do it?”

  “Because they don’t want to hurt their partner’s feelings,” he said, matter-of-factly, recorking the Patron.

  His statement struck a nerve. Maybe because David used to lie to me to protect my feelings, or maybe because I used to lie to David to protect his.

  I studied him, his open expression, his steady gaze. “Who lied, Matt?”

  “What do you mean?”


  “Did you lie or did your ex-wife?”

  “Kerry?” Matt asked, eyes rimmed with surprise. “No. Kerry never lied. I’m not talking about Kerry.”

  “Then who are you talking about?”

  “Na-ah. You first. Why’d your boyfriend break up with you?”

  Gathering a deep breath, I stood, grabbing The Cuddle Sutra from the counter. “If we’re going to talk instead of work, we might as well go through the positions in this book.”

  “Okay,” he said, following me. “My body is yours to command.”

  I chuckled, but a lusty little fire lit in my lower belly, making my chest tight and achy with anticipation.

  “Let me see,” I switched on the overhead light in my room and motioned to the bed, “lie down and let me look at this thing.”

  “Is that really called The Cuddle Sutra?” He lay on his back in the center of the bed, his hands behind his head, and dropped his eyes to the book in my hands.

  “Yes. According to my research, most cuddle salons hand it out to cuddle professionals as a guide of sorts.”

  “Huh.” He cleared his throat, then nudged me with his socked foot. “David. Breakup. Continue.”

  I glanced at the ceiling, not wanting to discuss David. Not now. Not when we could be talking about other things.

  Maybe, oh I don’t know, DO YOU LIKE ME? YES OR NO??

  Apparently, when I had a crush on someone, I mentally reverted back to a middle schooler passing notes with checkboxes.

  “Uh, I guess, he never pushed me?” I endeavored to focus on his question. “He was an enabler for everything, and never spoke up when he was unhappy. So, one day, it all boiled over and he broke things off.”

  Matt gave me a sideways glance. “How long were you two together?”

  “Just over six years.”

  “Why didn’t you get married?”

  Ugh. I hated that question.

  Stalling, I opened the book to the first position, one called the Come to Papa. Wrinkling my nose at the name, I analyzed the diagram.

  “Stay just like that,” I said, turning the book to show Matt the picture.

  “Oh. I approve of the name.” Matt wagged his eyebrows as he opened his arms. “Daddy wants a hug.”

  I laugh-snorted and kneeled on the bed, a thrill caused by his silly-sexy words giving me giddy goosebumps. This was a promising start.

  Walking on my knees until I was at his waist, I lay flat on my stomach, bending and positioning one of my legs between his, my chest against his torso, my cheek over his heart.

  His arms came around me and squeezed. “I have you trapped. So tell me, why didn’t you get married? Six years is considered a long time to date.”

  “You sound like my dad. That’s what he said.”

  “Well, this is the come-to-papa position.”

  I chuckled and then sighed. “Let’s see. Well, David asked me to marry him, but it never felt—”

  “Right,” he supplied.

  “Exactly.”

  “Hmm.” Matt began smoothing his large palm down my arm, then threaded his fingers in my hair. “Looking back, do you feel like he was a mistake? That dating him for so long was a waste of time?”

  “No.” I lifted my head, placing my chin on my forearms where they rested on his chest. “He was what I needed at the time, I think.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Someone kind.” I smiled softly, thinking back to all the times David went out of his way to be thoughtful.

  “But you didn’t marry him,” Matt pointed out, a hint of accusation in his tone.

  I pushed myself up, avoiding his gaze, and showed Matt the next position. Basically, it was a yin-yang shape, where Matt would lay on his side, his head by the headboard and I would lay on my side, my head at the foot of the bed. Then we’d both bend our legs, allowing each person to rest their head on the other’s knees or thighs.

  Once we were in position, and I noted the way his arms were crossed as well as his grumpy expression, I sought to answer his last question. “If I’m honest, completely honest, I didn’t marry David when he asked because he never wanted to fight.”

  Matt stiffened, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. His gaze suddenly sharpened, like I’d said something important.

  “Meaning?” he asked, a breathless quality to his voice.

  “I mean, he would do everything in his power to avoid fighting, even if it meant making himself terribly unhappy, which only made me feel guilty. We couldn’t disagree. He’d rush to change or fix whatever made me upset, rather than taking a stand. And he never seemed to have an opinion about anything until I shared mine first. And then, one day . . .”

  Matt uncrossed his arms and reached for one of my hands, playing with the tips of my fingers as he listened. And more or less melting my heart.

  I continued haltingly, wanting to focus on my words, but finding it difficult to do so when he was touching me. “I was doing this story on bodybuilders and gym rats. It started out being a story about the phenomena of people putting on makeup and doing their hair to go to the gym. My editor was curious, do they sweat off their makeup? Or ruin their hair? Or do they only choose exercises that are sweat free? Or what was going on? I thought it was dumb at the time, but I did it because she was in love with the idea. Anyway, that led to a story about gym selfies. And that led to a story about people who spend most of their day in the gym. And that led to a story about body dysmorphia, but it was entitled, ‘The Tiny Truth About Bodybuilders.’”

  Matt smirked. “Ruh roh,” he said, sounding just like Scooby Doo.

  “I know.”

  “How’d you convince the guys to show you their penis?”

  I stared at Matt. Is he serious?

  When he continued to regard me with curiosity, I said, “I’m a woman.”

  “Yeah. So? Do women have a skeleton key to get into restricted areas that I don’t know about?”

  “Yes. Boobs.”

  He frowned at me and, before he could help himself, his eyes flickered to my chest and then back to my face. “Meaning?”

  “I used my boobs.”

  His frown became a scowl. “You flashed them?”

  “No. Of course not, dipstick. I don’t need to flash my boobs, I just need to make it obvious that I have boobs.”

  “Clearly you have boobs.” He gestured to my torso. “You are a woman, breasts are part of your genetic code. But what I don’t understand are the words that are coming out of your mouth. Again, Greek. I say, ‘How did you use your boobs?’ And you say, ‘Potato dog dancing lamppost.’”

  I giggled at him and his silly consternation. “Okay, fine. All I did was brush my fingertips along my neckline and asked if they’d show me their penis for a story I was writing.”

  His scowl eased, his expression morphing into amazement. “That’s it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Yep. Boobs. They’re amazing.”

  He lifted an eyebrow in an over-exaggerated manner, giving me a charmingly lopsided grin. “Do you think if I skimmed my fingertips over my fly it would work with women?”

  I threw my head back and laughed. And he laughed. The bed shook with our laughter. And when I glanced at him I saw his eyes were on my neck, but he was still laughing.

  “Sure.” I wiped tears of hilarity from the corners of my eyes. “Give it a go. See if you can get out of a speeding ticket by gesturing to your crotch.”

  “Excuse me, Madame Police Officer, so you’re saying the thrust—” he tilted his hips forward just slightly, using a silly voice, his index finger skimmed along the zipper of his pants, “—of the issue was my speed?”

  I trailed my fingertips along the edge of my bra beneath my shirt. “Thank you for keeping me abreast of the situation,” I said, playing along.

  Matt’s eyes flickered to where my hand moved and he blinked.

  His smile wavered.

  Neither of us spoke, but it took me a moment to hea
r the silence, and then it was oddly deafening. His eyes were still on my chest and I held my breath.

  Was this it?

  Would this be the moment?

  Would he . . . do something? Make a move?

  The tension was almost unbearable—almost—and I prepared myself for something.

  But then he blinked away, his attention moving to someplace behind me. “You’re right,” he said, a new edge in his voice, his earlier smile present but somehow different.

  “I’m right?” I asked breathlessly, my hopes singularly focused on the next words out of his mouth.

  “Yeah. Boobs are amazing.” He cleared his throat, shifting on the bed. “Should we move into a new position?”

  Wait . . . what just happened?

  “Oh, sure.” I lowered my eyes to the comforter, careful to keep the perplexed disappointment from his sight and from my tone.

  I reached for the book blindly, flipping it to the next page and forcing myself to study it. He’d had a perfect in, a perfect opportunity to make a move.

  And he didn’t.

  I wondered briefly if I smelled, and turned away so I could take a surreptitious sniff of my armpit.

  For the record, I smelled great.

  The next position called for his head to rest on my lap. Doubting myself, I decided to skip the position. Had I completely misread his behavior over the last few weeks? Did he still want our relationship to be strictly platonic?

  I continued flipping until I found one that looked benign so I could get my head on straight.

  “Here’s one. We both just lie next to each other and hold hands.” I showed him the picture.

  He nodded, his face devoid of expression, and lay adjacent to me on the bed. Our heads were on the pillows and we rested next to each other, not touching except holding hands.

  “Back to your ex. He saw the article and flipped out finally?” His tone, like his features, felt reserved.

  My swimming, simmering, see-sawing emotions had me gulping a few large breaths. I couldn’t read him, and I couldn’t decipher what was happening in my mind and heart. He was happy to hang with me, but not wanting anything more.

  . . . Right?

  Right. Okay. Fine.

  I swallowed my disappointment and endeavored to recalibrate my expectations for the evening. Clearly, I was being unfair, trying to assign feelings to him that were non-existent.