by Layne Harper
Subconsciously, my left pointer finger traces the star tattoo on my right wrist. Bella grabs my hands. “Don’t do this.” She meets my eyes. “I’ve moved on. Nyall is a good guy. If I can open myself up to love again, so can you. Don’t automatically assume every guy is a monster like him.”
I bite my lip to keep from freaking out and ruining my makeup. She’s right. I can’t let her horrible experience from eight years ago shape my future. I repeat in my head Aaron is not Quinn.
Bella and I hug tightly, and I kiss her scar. “Open yourself up to love, baby girl. No one found their happily-ever-after by hiding in their apartment.”
Laughing, I agree. “You are so right, Bella Boo.”
I open the Uber app on my phone and request a ride. Normally, I’m all about walking. I don’t own a car and walk or take a trolley car whenever possible, but these heels will not play nicely with the poor condition of New Orleans roads and sidewalks.
“Text me when you get home. Love you.” Bella grabs her purse and walks out the door.
“Will do. Love you too,” I call as I exit the carriage house and walk down the set of old wooden stairs behind her.
The Uber driver is waiting out front. I slide into the back seat and I greet him warmly. As the car pulls away from the curb, I send a quick Tweet to my followers.
MK Landry @NoPinkCaddy
In the car on the way to meet my date. #FirstDateJitters
Ten minutes later, at 7:35, I’m being dropped off in front of the restaurant. By the time I bid the driver a good evening, I think I might be sick. My emotions are all over the place. I’m excited to see Aaron again. Nervous that my feelings were a one-time-only kind of thing and that we’ll have no connection. Even more nervous that I didn’t imagine the chemistry and now, I might truly get my heart smashed to little pieces if my feelings aren’t reciprocated.
Taking a deep breath, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jacket, begging my pulse to slow down. I try to inconspicuously take a whiff of my armpits, hoping I don’t smell like I’ve been on the elliptical for an hour. Fortunately, I think I’m safe.
“Miss Landry?” I’m greeted by a young girl dressed all in black. “Welcome to La Petite Grocery.”
How did she know my name?
“Thank you,” I reply as I take in the décor. The ceilings are very high—at least two stories. The bar is across from the hostess stand and a line of booths split the first room in two. It’s cozy and intimate. The lighting is low, giving it a rather romantic vibe.
“May I take your coat?”
“Oh. Please.” I slide it off my shoulders.
The hostess takes my jacket and leads me through the first room as I scan the faces of patrons, looking for Aaron. I don’t see him.
There’s a second room of equal size partitioned from the first room by an arched entryway with long velvet curtains. When she pulls the material back, I realize there’s no one else in the room but him.
Aaron stands as we enter. He looks devastatingly handsome. Navy paisleys swirl on a black tuxedo-style jacket. He has on a black, collared shirt under, and the look is paired with dark jeans and boots tipped with silver toes peeking out. Aaron has on a different fedora tonight. It’s more formal, maybe a wool and silk blend—I can’t quite tell. There’s one thing that is blatantly clear, though. This man does not work in oil and gas. His dress is anything but conservative. Another one of my people-watching stories is false.
He meets me halfway, and the hostess disappears. He’s so quiet for a moment that I start to question my dress choice. Is it too much? Maybe I should have gone shorter or more boobs. I fidget with the hem of the cream material, standing in the middle of an empty room feeling as if I’m being examined. My thumb goes to the cuticle I had begun mutilating earlier. Uncertainty washes over me like a wave fighting to reach the shore. I shouldn’t have come. This was a mistake. If I hadn’t explored this, Aaron could have become a myth in my safe, single world. Now, I’ve put myself out there and I want to turn and runaway.
He licks his lips and says, “Wow! MK, you’re stunning.”
I become so light from the weight off my shoulders that I could float. Dropping my chin, I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Thank you. You aren’t so bad yourself.”
He chuckles as he takes my hand and leads me to our table by a window. Pink roses are trimmed close to the bud and float in a fishbowl-style vase. Our seats are close together—it’s intimate. A few people walk by outside, only separated from us by the glass. I wonder if they know I’m on a first date and very nervous. Are they looking in the window and making up a back story on us?
A gust of wind blows outside, and the old windows can’t hold it at bay. Goose pimples break out on my arms and a little shiver overtakes my body.
“Are you cold?” he asks. The V forms between his eyes like I saw last night when I fell.
“A bit,” I reply, wishing I still had my coat for comfort but a bit sad my dress would be hidden.
“We can move. Pick a table,” he says as he gestures around the empty room.
I waited tables in college. You can’t just pick any table in a restaurant. There’s a system, a method to how patrons are seated. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea. We should check with the hostess first. We want to make sure we sit where a waiter has been assigned.”
Aaron leans in as if he’s about to let me in on a big secret. “I bought out the whole room. Pick where you want.”
Well then.
I try to play it cool. Sure, I’ve been on dates before where the guy has bought a room. I mean, who hasn’t, right?
Oh God. He wouldn’t have bought a whole room if he didn’t have the same feelings for me as I do for him.
Aaron, whose last name I don’t know, is absolutely, positively, definitely not in oil and gas. Gas prices are too low for an oil man to buy out half a restaurant.
I stand up and choose a table on the opposite wall but still in a corner. I think Aaron has a corner fetish. He follows behind me, carrying the fishbowl of pink roses.
“Better?” he asks when we’re seated again.
“Much.” I’m feeling so shy. Normally my mouth runs a mile a minute, but I’m completely out of my league. I want to ask him a million questions, but I don’t think he wants to share a lot about himself. I don’t want to ramble on about me because, well, that makes me sound self-absorbed. He doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s interested in politics, and the weather makes for boring conversation. I literally have no clue what to say. Should I ask what his favorite color is?
Fortunately, he breaks the silence. “How’s your head?”
“Good.” I reach back and run my hand over the bump. “I have a large knot which made its presence known when I washed my hair this morning.” I lift my arm to show him my bruised elbow. “And I have this, but I’ll make it.” Then I remember the flowers he sent. “Umm . . . thank you for the beautiful pink roses today. The ladies in my office really enjoyed them. By the way, how did you know where I worked?”
He leans back in his chair and takes a sip from the glass that the carried with him when we changed tables. He’s so cool. If he’s as nervous as I am, it doesn’t show. “You told me your first and last name last night. It’s not hard to get an office address.”
“But you said you’re not on social media.” I’m not sure why that’s an argument to his spying confession, but I say it anyways.
“I’m not on social media, but I can use Google and other information-gathering services.” There’s a sharpness to his voice. He’s not angry. Maybe it’s confidence or cockiness. Maybe he’s pretending to be something he’s not. His shoulders seem unnaturally stiff, as if he’s trying to have good posture in a chair too small for his body. His eyes are the only things which seem natural, and they’re smoldering.
I know the feeling. I feel like the part of MK Landry tonight is being played by an imposter who can’t find the right words and has forgotten how to have a conversation.
“Tell me about your job.” He shifts in his chair but still looks uncomfortable.
I’m relieved by the change in subject, and my hands relax. I begin sharing with him information about my human resources job and the ladies I work with when he cuts me off by touching my forearm. Shivers run down my spine, and I silently beg his hand to stay there. “I’m sorry, MK. I meant for you to tell me about your site.”
He signals for the waiter, and a man in a white shirt appears at my side with a bottle of red wine and a bottle of white. “I’ll have what he’s having.” In my head, I mean I’ll have water like he’s drinking, but Aaron doesn’t interpret my comment that way.
“I’m not drinking,” he says dismissively. “Choose what you want. If you don’t like these choices, I’m sure he can bring others. Have a mixed drink if you prefer that.”
I feel so out of my league here. Wine would be nice. “A glass of Pinot Noir please.” I tell the waiter, hoping it’s not too expensive. Yes. Aaron bought out half a restaurant, but I don’t want to over-order. Manners books say I should order off the menu in the same price range.
“Bring her the bottle,” Aaron amends.
“Aaron, I can’t drink a bottle of wine.” My eyes grow wide. “Sure, I’ve got a tolerance, but I have to work tomorrow. Please, a glass is enough. Water was my first choice.”
“Whatever you don’t drink they can cork and you can take it home. Think of it as a party favor.” There’s the smirk that last night I longed to see again. For the first time this evening, he seems more like the guy I met at Eddy’s.
The waiter nods and scurries off.
His comment makes me relax. A party favor on a date. How funny is that? Before I can stop myself, I feel my eyes make a full one-hundred-and-eighty-degree rotation in their sockets.
“Did you just roll your eyes at me?” His smile is genuine and settles the butterflies in my stomach.
I giggle. “I think I did.”
“Because I’m being gentlemanly?” His eyebrow cocks in confusion.
“No. Thank you. It’s very generous to order the whole bottle of wine. But I was fine with just a glass. You see if you’re not drinking, then I’m not drinking much. I need all my defenses up.” I grab my water and take a sip to hide my smile.
“I think I might like your defenses down.” The playful glint in his eyes from last night is also back. He leans in, crossing his arms and resting them on the table. “So tell me about your website.”
It’s odd. The table isn’t big, and his large frame is definitely in what I define as my personal space. Instead of leaning back to regain my area, I shift my weight forward so I’m more telling him a secret I don’t want others to hear than talking about my baby. Of course, this is all subconscious, but when I note it, I realize just how attracted I am to Aaron. He’s not pulling away so the feeling must be somewhat mutual.
I love talking about NPC. This is safe ground for me, and my shoulders agree by finally relaxing. “It started as a way for me to connect with other girls like me. I thought, if I’m feeling this way, I bet there are a ton of other girls out there who are in the same boat.”
“And how were you feeling?” He’s genuinely interested. His eyes are bright, and I have his undivided attention.
I think for a moment and consider my answer before I reply. “Disappointed. It was always assumed in my world that I would graduate from college, get an engagement ring soon after, get married, maybe work a year or two, and then start having babies. Husband would work, and I’d raise the kids and lunch at the country club. Of course, my days would be filled with important charity causes I would work tirelessly for and host parties at my mansion in the Garden District.”
“So what happened?” He rests his chin in his hand.
“Well, my college boyfriend dumped me two days after graduation. I had to move home with my parents. Michael’s dad was nice enough to give me my job in his company six months later.”
“You still work there?”
Nodding, I lean back as the waiter approaches with a bottle in hand. He shows it to Aaron who motions for him to give me the approval. The waiter uncorks it and pours a small taste. My goodness, it’s fantastic. “Wonderful,” I tell the waiter.
He pours a full glass and then rests the bottle on a table nearby. “Are you ready to order?”
“I haven’t looked at the menu.” I scramble to find it and realize it was left on our old table.
“No problem,” the waiter says and looks to Aaron. “Would you like a moment or do you want served what we discussed?”
My eyes dart from Aaron to the waiter and back. Aaron replies, “Why don’t you give us a few more minutes?”
I open my mouth to ask what he had discussed with the waiter, but Aaron cuts me off and asks the question again. “Do you still work for your ex-boyfriend’s father’s company?” He reminds me of a bird dog—when he wants answers, he doesn’t like being distracted.
“Yup. And I have the honor and privilege of also seeing him and his wife and their three darling kids every Sunday at mass.” That deserves a big swig of wine.
“Do you still love him?” The brim of his fedora shades his eyes, but his voice betrays a hint of unease, as if the answer to this question is important.
I want to see him better. “Will you remove your hat?”
“Why?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Because I feel like if you’re asking that personal of a question, and you expect me to respond honestly, I should be able to see your eyes.”
The stony expression on his face melts into a gentle smile. He removes his hat and places it on the seat of the chair at the table next to us. He shakes his head back and forth and then uses his hand to tussle his locks.
His hair is long—just a bit past his chin—and the color of gold. It’s gorgeous by any measure, but for a guy it’s particularly pretty. It’s messy and he would probably think that he needed a brush, but I had never known until this moment that long, pretty hair on a guy could make me feel so flushed.
“Your hair is beautiful.” I sound dreamy, and quickly take a sip of wine to hide my embarrassment.
“Thank you,” he replies. He leans forward in his seat and takes my hand. “Do you still love him?” Each word is pronounced.
I don’t hesitate. After many years of exploring this on my blog, I know what the answer is. “I love the idea of him.” Aaron nods and looks pleased with my answer. “He’s smart, successful, and has a family. Not to scare you off on the first date”—I hold up my glass in a mock toast—“but I want what he has. I want to be married and have children. To answer your question though, no, I don’t think I ever really loved him as a person. He was a means to achieving my goal.”
“Ouch.” Aaron drops my hand, leaning away from me. An ugly scowl mars his features. “So you used him?”
“No,” I quickly reply and shake my hands in defense. “I thought I loved him. Hell, I was crazy about him. I doodled his last name paired with mine. He played football for LSU, and I wore his number and went to every game. But did I love him like I couldn’t live without him? Well, obviously no. Here I am, eight years after he broke up with me, and I’m living just fine.”
This conversation is getting way too deep for a first date. I want to know more about Aaron. So far, it’s been all about me. “Give me a sec to look over the menu. What did you discuss with the waiter?”
With a devilish glint, he says, “I’m not telling you. You can either play it safe and order exactly what you want or you can take a chance.” He shifts in his seat, resting his arms on the table. “Roll the dice, MK. Are you willing to gamble?”
I have a feeling he’s talking about more than just dinner. Cocking one brow, I say, “When you were background-checking me, did you pay extra to find out my dietary preferences?”
A pleased look crosses his face, and he tilts his head to the left, causing his hair to cover one eye. I’m so tempted to lean forward and t
uck it behind his ears, but really I just want to touch it to see if it’s as soft as it looks. “No need. I watched every video on your YouTube channel.”
My mouth must be hanging open, because he adds, “Apparently you can learn a lot about someone from social media.”
The waiter steps up to our table, and without breaking our eye contact, Aaron says, “Let’s go with what we talked about.”
The waiter nods and disappears down a hall.
There’s a part of me that feels very offended—almost as if I caught him rummaging through my panty drawer. The other part of me is flattered he was interested enough in my passion to give the countless hours of videos a watch. The guy must not have slept. I feel so off-balance. This evening is anything but predictable in a good and bad way.
Leaning back in my chair, my finger touches my chin. “What exactly did you learn?”
His cocky grin grows wide enough to reveal his cosmetically altered white teeth as his cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink. “You’re creative. I learned that from the different tutorials on restoring and repurposing furniture. My favorite video was when you turned a trashed copper fire pit into a planter with red, yellow, and orange flowers.”
Nodding, I add, “It’s right outside of the carriage house, and my neighbors sometimes join me for a glass of wine around it in the spring and fall.”
“You’re a great cook. The comments on your cooking videos are positive.” With a tilt of his head, he says, “Should I rattle off the different dishes you prepared?”
“No need. I actually believe you watched them.”
He reaches over and grabs the edge of the seat of my chair and yanks it hard enough that I slide next to him. Aaron turns me so we’re facing each other almost nose to nose. I can smell the cinnamon of his breath mints, and my mouth waters for a sample. He places a thumb under my chin and raises my head so I meet his eyes. Softly, he says, “You also don’t give yourself enough credit. You settle for guys who want you to fit into a mold that’s not you. You’re smart, funny, self-deprecating, beautiful, and one of the most intriguing people I’ve ever met. Quit trying to be something you’re not. Just be you, because you’re fucking awesome.”