“Ignored you?” His fingers twist themselves in a small section of my hair.
“Yes! Blatantly ignored me. I wanted you then and I want you now. And what I really want is my fair share of the Noah Matheson dating experience. Are you going to deny me?”
In one swift, effortless movement, Noah swoops my legs up over his and pushes me down onto his couch. He hovers over me and I squeal when he catches my wrists and pins my arms above my head. He flashes a mischievous grin. “You’re sending me mixed signals, Mia Page.”
When he says my name like that I’m reminded that that isn’t me anymore. As much as I wish I could revert to the eighteen year old Mia Page who would give anything to be pinned beneath Noah Matheson, I am a twenty-eight year old Mia Murphy who has a lot to think about before running her mouth. My mouth is going to get me in a lot of trouble. Trouble I’m not ready to face.
Noah must sense the shift in my playful mood. He releases the grip on my wrists and extends a hand to help pull me back up to a sitting position. “Seriously, Mia. I’m all about slow and steady.”
I look into his eyes, sheepishly. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
He dips down, planting a soft kiss on the tip of my nose. “Exactly.”
“Stop staring at her, bro. You look ridiculous.”
“Oh shut up, Carl. Like you don’t look ridiculous kicking around that fucking hacky sack, waiting for someone to come over and play with you.”
Carl continues bouncing the bead-filled ball off his foot. It’s so goddamn irritating. In ten seconds I’m going to chuck it across the lawn and into the huge fountain next to that gorgeous blonde. Maybe that’ll get her attention.
“You just want that chick to play with you. Finally get that tiny pecker of yours some action.”
My jaw tightens and my hands squeeze into fists. I hate being reminded of my lame sexual status. Status as in, there is none. “Gimme that fucking thing. You’re such a prick, you know that?”
He kicks the ball up and catches it in his hands before pulling it close to him, like I’m about to steal his fucking beloved blankie or something. “I have a better chance of getting someone to kick this little ball around with me than you do of getting your balls played with.”
I’m starting to regret agreeing to have Carl as my dorm mate. This guy’s supposed to be my friend, my wingman. Not the one making jabs at my manhood, or lack thereof.
“Douche. You’re a real douche.” I shake my head, ignoring Carl’s smug look and dragging my hands through my hair to remove the strands that have fallen in front of my face. Damn floppy hair is obstructing my view of Blondie.
“She is pretty cute, Dec. Let’s go over to her. See which one of us she picks.”
That’s it—fucking ball’s mine. While Carl is busy musing over my new obsession I swipe the hacky sack from him and toss it over to a bunch of stoner-looking freshmen. The pattern on the ball resembles Bob Marley’s Rasta hat—they’ll like that. One Love and all that free spirited shit.
“Hey. What the fuck, man. Why’d you do that?”
“Eyes off my girl.”
“Your girl?” he laughs so hard it’s almost maniacal. “You’re delusional, bro. And I’m willing to bet my fake ID that she’ll never be your girl.”
When I see her in the library, wrapping strands of her long hair around a dainty finger, her beautiful face buried in a textbook, I decide it’s finally time to take charge of my destiny. I’m bordering on stalkerish tendencies—asking about her around campus, following her to classes. It’s about damn time I take action.
Ever since the first time I saw her at orientation four weeks ago, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I at least tried to talk to her. Hell, I wanted to do more than talk to her. I wanted to kiss her heart-shaped mouth, rest my arm around her sexy still-bronze shoulders, take her on a date. And as much as I’d obsessed over her, Carl’s bet only made it more interesting. I really wanted to prove him wrong, thinking I can’t get the girl, but I could honestly give a shit less about Carl right now. I’m thinking about her, and me, and…God, I really want this girl. I feel like such a loser, but I’d spent four weeks building up courage and scrounging up information about her to get to this point.
Legs, don’t fail me now. Walk! When my two suddenly-awkward legs comprehend the order from my brain and start to move, I take a deep breath. I’d played this over and over in my head, but with my heart thundering the way it is, my script is out the damn window.
When I reach her table, staring at the back of her head; the sunlight bringing out all crazy shades of gold and yellow in her naturally highlighted hair, I blurt it out. “Hey, aren’t you in my psychology class?” I know she isn’t, but I’m just following the script.
Startled, she looks over her shoulder and the first thing that registers in this nervous brain of mine is the expression on her face. I’ve seen this before, and I’m not completely clueless. I know the look of a girl who likes what she sees. Widened eyes, roaming irises, a sheepish smile. Thank you, sweet baby Jesus, Mia likes what she sees.
She tucks some of the shiny golden hairs behind her ear, peering up at me through thick, long lashes.
I drop a hand on the back of her chair. “You’re Mia, right?” There’re those big baby browns again. The ones that took my breath away that first day I saw her. I can tell she’s surprised that I know her name. If she only knew the lengths I’d gone to find out. But it was all worth it for the smile she’s gifting me with right now. I want to be the reason she smiles like that all the time.
When I ask if I can pull up a chair, she doesn’t even hesitate. I sit then swivel around, looking in the direction of Carl a few tables over. Stupid SOB is about to eat his words and hand over that ridiculous fake ID. I’ll be doing him a favor, actually; he won’t be fooling anyone with it.
Mia’s roommate gets up from the table, leaving us alone. The conversation, in all its flirty brilliance, goes so smooth I feel like freaking Johnny Depp. Her sweet laughter warms my insides in a way that reminds me of home cooked meals. In ten minutes of speaking to this girl, I’m ready to throw the idea of freshman-year bachelordom in front of a train. Carl had talked me into trying to hook up with as many random chicks as possible in our first year here, but Mia makes me hungry for something else. Something way more serious than a dumb notch on a belt.
I hooked up a lot in high school, nothing significant. But I ended up dating one girl for the majority of senior year. I might have even loved Megan Briggs. She was popular, beautiful and the life of the party. Unfortunately, she planned on carrying on that tradition throughout her college years and decided she wanted to do it without a boyfriend to drag her down. For the first time in my life, I felt heartbroken. It’s not like I’d expected to carry on a long distance relationship and marry the girl, but I did think we’d have the summer to say our goodbyes.
In a way, Megan did me a favor. She prepared me for the next girl to come along. The next girl that would undoubtedly steal my heart. And right now I hate thinking about Megan Briggs while staring at that girl. Thank you very much, but screw you too Megan Briggs.
Without sounding schizo, I tell Mia something about voices in my head urging me to talk to her. She giggles, sending my heart into funny samba-like moves inside my rib cage. When she registers the contentment on my face she asks, “What is the voice in your head telling you now?”
Here’s your chance, Declan. Say it now or risk dropping the ball, fumbling the pass, dodging the...Yeah, yeah—the voice is getting fucking annoying now. I lean back in my chair, praying to baby Jesus that I look calm and cool, instead of all worked up and nervous as hell of rejection. “It’s telling me to ask you out.”
Her eyes brighten again, but she’s silent. She takes a long pause. The library becomes painfully quiet. My mouth itches to say, “You’re killing me, Smalls.” But instead I come up with something a little more charming than a quote from The Sandlot.
When her mouth forms the prettiest
damn smile I’ve ever seen and she speaks the spectacular three-letter word, “Yes!” I resist the urge to jump up off the chair and pump my fist in the air, like fucking Rudy did at the end of the big Notre Dame game. What the fuck’s with my head and all these movie references right now? This is real life! And in real life the most gorgeous girl I’ve ever laid eyes on has just agreed to go out with me.
“Favorite color.”
“Purple.” I’d pegged her for a pink girl. “My turn. Favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Mint chocolate chip.” We’d covered birthdays, colors, and subjects in school, but I still wanted to know more because I had a plan for a first date that would knock her socks off. “Enough with the girly crap, important stuff now. Favorite band.” If Carl were here listening to this shit he would have hurled, or hired a stripper to fuck the man back into me. I never pictured myself as one of those guys talking to a girl for hours over the phone, lying on the bed, staring up the ceiling, but that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. I’m one step away from doodling little squiggly hearts in a goddamned notebook. Shit! I’m fucking doomed.
“Oh, that’s easy. Third Eye Blind. Stephen Jenkins is hot!”
I know she’s talking about a celebrity, but I don’t like her thinking another guy is hot. “Oh, really? Can’t be that hot, I haven’t even heard of them.”
“Are you serious? Jumper, How’s It Going to Be, Semi-Charmed Life? You’ve had to have heard at least one of those.”
Of course I had, but I liked hearing her this worked up—so passionate about something. “Nope.”
“Wow, Declan. Are you living under a rock? You’d love them, they’re very alternative/grunge-inspired, so…sexy. Ohmygod, me and Grace went to their concert over the summer and it was like, life-changing. When he sang The Background we both cried like babies.”
“Over a song?”
“Oh shut up! I take it you’re not a music lover then, huh?”
That’s where she’s wrong. I fucking love music—listening to it, singing it, playing it. I could sit there and fiddle with riffs and chords on a guitar all day long and be content. But she didn’t need to know that yet. It was all part of the master plan. “No, I like music, but usually when a girl talks about how hot the lead singer is that really means they’re some bubble-gum boy-band with a one hit wonder.”
And that’s where I was wrong.
After that phone conversation and hearing her talk about how those songs made her feel something, I ran out and bought the CD. To my surprise, aside from the popular radio hits I’d known, the band started to grow on me. Especially one track in particular. The track that brought it all into play.
My plan all along was to take Mia to The Alibi for our first date. My buddy Travis’ band headlines on Saturday nights. For the layman, that translates as: my roommate’s older brother—who has the most kick-ass band on College Row—has agreed to let me sing a song for my date. Before I knew about her favorite band, I’d asked Travis’ advice for a song that would make a good impression but also send her a clear message. His suggestion was predictable, way too karaoke-ish. After nearly giving in and settling on the Bon Jovi ballad, I’d come across track number eleven, I Want You.
“Dude, you sure you can learn this by Saturday?”
Travis looks up at me from tuning his guitar with the look of death. “Yes, lover boy, it’s not that hard. Even if it is a pansy ass song.”
“Pansy ass? The guy’s singing about how much he wants this girl, all sultry and shit, how is that pansy ass?” Now I’m defending the band? Mia just has that effect on me—I want to like what she likes.
“Come on. Let’s try it out. Grab the mic and do your best…sultry.” Burn! Travis is never gonna let me live this one down.
Doesn’t matter, because after memorizing the lyrics and ingraining them into my soul, I am dead set on singing these words to my new girl.
I dig deep, really letting the lyrics take over. This is what Mia meant by life-changing, and I know it all too well—allowing words and emotions to flood your consciousness and pump through your veins, make you feel goddamn invincible. Bottle this shit up, it’s like a drug!
When I’m done with the first rehearsal, Travis looks at me with an eyebrow cocked and his mouth slightly agape. “Damn, Dec. You’re so gonna get laid.”
So, yeah, I know it seems outlandish—serenading a girl I’ve only known a week in front of most of the school, on our very first date. But it doesn’t take a genius, or more than a week, to see that Mia is not just some girl. She’s the girl. I might have known this that day in the library, but our phone conversations and minor run-ins this week have solidified it. She’s take-home-to-mom, put-a-ring-on-her-finger, mother-of-my-children material.
And I haven’t even kissed her yet.
I excuse myself from our booth at The Alibi and Mia is none-the-wiser as I bee-line it for the stage. When I hop up and join the band, I focus my spotlight-blinded gaze on my date. I expect her to be nervous, maybe even a slight bit mortified, but she looks...ready. Score for me! I think it’s safe to assume this date will go down in history as her most impressive one yet. Unless having a guy sing to you, in public, is the kind of thing she’s used to happening on a first date.
I clear my throat and say a silent prayer that I can do her favorite band some fucking justice. The bass guitarist, Josh, starts the intro and the adrenaline pumping through my veins fuels me. By the time I get to the chorus of the song, the words “I want you” roll off my tongue like silk. Regardless of the hoots and hollers from the approving crowd, it’s like it’s only me and Mia in this room. My eyes never leave hers. Her big brown eyes practically have stars in them.
It’s working.
When the song is over and I’ve slapped just about every dude’s hand in the bar, and been squeezed on the ass by a few too many of the ladies, I make my way back to my beautiful date. I imagine that this is what a rock star feels like after a performance. Only instead of wooing a shit-load of panty-throwing groupies, I’m only interested in what this one girl thinks of me.
I act as if I haven’t just poured my soul out for her, as if I just got back from going to the bathroom like she had originally thought. I sit back in the booth pretending not to notice how awed she seems. I take a sip of my soda and lean back.
“Seriously, dude? Are you kidding?” She pinches my arm. The first physical contact of the night. It’s not enough.
“What?” I say, displaying my most wicked grin.
I try to pay attention to what’s coming out of those delicious lips, but all I can focus on his how much I do want her. I catch the tail end. “... amazing, Declan. No one has ever done something like that for me before.”
I arch an eyebrow, playing with her. “Who said I was doing it for you?”
She slaps my arm this time, allowing her hand to linger. The lingering sensation is a little better, but I still want more.
When she motions to the waitress for the check, I worry that I’ve done something wrong. Did I come on too strong? Why is our date suddenly over? I thought it was just getting good.
But she opens her mouth to explain and her response blows me away. Mia wants to get out of here because she wants me too. Holy Fuck!
After the most amazing kiss of my entire life, we catch the shuttle back to campus. We hold hands and share a few publically acceptable kisses the whole way back. She’s invited me back to her room to watch a movie. I agree, but I can tell by her body language that watching some movie has nothing to do with what she really wants.
Fuck, watching a movie has nothing to do with what I really want. But what I really want, I’ve never done and I don’t exactly know how the hell to explain that to a woman who walks, talks and breathes sex. Megan was the closest I’d ever come to doing it, but neither of us was ever really ready. Call me old fashioned or a total dweeb if you must, but I don’t believe that you should have sex just to have sex. Sure, my hormone-flooded body strongly disagrees with my honor
able intentions at times, but I want my first time to be with someone special. And as special as Megan seemed in some extremely heated instances, I knew she wasn’t the one.
My brain wars with my twitching dick the entire brisk walk back to her dorm room. And damn it if my sweet, shy Mia isn’t coming out of her innocent shell. My song seems to have turned her from southern belle to sex kitten.
Not that I’m complaining.
Kissing and groping, we stumble into her room and she flips on the light, sighing in relief. She pulls me back to her by the collar of my shirt and speaks against my lips, “Roommate’s gone for the night. Thank God.” She flips the switch again, this time leaving us to the dark confines of her deliciously smelling room. It’s a mix of coconut and clean laundry; Mia’s shampoo and her very clean sheets.
Clean sheets. We’ve already made our way to the sheets. Fuck, I don’t want to stop. But I have to. Me and my stupid mouth! Who sings a panty dropping song like that and then doesn’t want the girl to drop her fucking panties?
Shouldn’t I be hovering over her? My poor dick is begging to be let out of these pants, but he’s going to have to wait a little longer. Shit! I feel totally emasculated thinking like this, even as Mia straddles me, trying with all her tiny, though persuasive, might to let said dick free. “Mia. Wait. Stop.”
She stops, but her hands remain plastered to my pants button.
Here’s where I sound like the girl, ruining the rugged exterior I tried so hard to impress her with tonight. “It’s our first date. There’s plenty of time for…For our first time.”
I let out an exasperated groan, maybe it’s a whimper. I don’t fucking know. But I snap to and grab her wrists, placing her arms at her side. Away from my fucking over-eager dick.
When we sit up on the bed, eye to eye, I lift my hand up to her face, cupping her perfect little chin and pushing her sexy bangs out of those cocoa brown eyes. Those eyes are now hooded, the enlarged size of her pupils a clear indicator of how turned on she is. How ready. Why the fuck can’t I just be ready? “Mia, I want you. I’ve never wanted someone so badly…ever. But…”
Man of My Dreams Page 19