“It was my little sister, Jill’s, favorite book growing up, and I taught her to read way back when, so I have it memorized.”
Her smile widens. “What a good older brother. Is she your only sibling?”
“I have an older brother. He works in London. And Jill’s the youngest. She’s in New York. She landed a part in a new Broadway musical called Crash the Moon. It opens soon, and I’m going to see her opening night. I’m really proud of her.”
“I’ve heard about that musical. It sounds amazing. Davis Milo is the director,” she says, then hums a show tune that sounds familiar, probably from Jill singing it. “That’s from Anything For You, another one of his shows. He’s a genius.”
“Jill says the same thing. She’s pretty stoked. What about you? Any siblings?”
“I have one sister. Julia,” she says then tells me about the bar her sister owns in the Mission District.
We segue into favorite drinks, then favorite shows, and before too long it occurs to me that I could easily spend the whole time talking with her and never make it to the reason I asked her to dinner. She’s so damn easy to have a conversation with.
But I need to focus on business affairs, not dating affairs that aren’t real. Once more, I recalibrate. “The reason I asked you here is that I have an idea. It’s a little crazy. A little edgy, but it’s also one-hundred-percent legit awesome, and I hope you’re up for it.”
She rubs her palms together. “You want me to hold other tools hostage?”
Yeah, like my dick.
Whoa, where did that come from?
Oh yeah. Maybe the filthy thoughts that keep jostling their way to the front of my brain.
“Sure, I have a wrench that’s been naughty. Maybe you can put it in its place?” I joke.
“I’m prepared to kidnap it if need be. But, in all seriousness, what do you have in mind?”
I’m flying blind here. I’ve no idea if she’ll be interested in my proposal, but I have a gut feeling she’d be awesome at it. Plus, Bruce went bananas for her videos and insisted I get her, so here I go. “Would you like to do a dating segment on my show?”
She freezes, mid-drink of water.
Her elbow doesn’t move. Her lips are parted. She stares at me as if I’m speaking backward, a record played in reverse.
She blinks and sets the glass down. “You want me to do a segment on your show? Me? A fashion gal? On your show on geek culture?”
This may be harder than I thought. But I go for it, making my case. “You’re a natural on camera. You’re funny and personable and chatty. And I thought it would be great if you came on to tackle some of the dating questions the guys send me. You already answered one at SassyAss, and it was brilliant.”
She laughs, a nervous undertone to it. “And because I nailed one answer at the coffee shop, you want me to answer more on Geeking Out?”
“We’re trying to reach more women, and even though the questions would be from guys, you have such a natural appeal to both men and women that I think it would help us expand our viewership.”
“But I’m not a dating expert,” she says, flustered. “I’m sort of the opposite.”
I need to make it clear that’s what I want. That’s her charm. “That’s perfect. You don’t have years of polished answers that a so-called relationship expert could give. You speak from the heart, and you’d be speaking from your experiences out there as you date again. You could talk about what went right and what went wrong on your dates, and answer questions.” I push past the gravel in my throat from thinking about her dating. It honestly shouldn’t bother me so much. I do my best to wrestle the tic of annoyance far out of sight. “Sort of like reporting from the front lines.”
“Dating is definitely the front lines,” she says, and it sounds like she’s considering my proposal, like I’m getting her close to the yes both Bruce and I want. “But, Chris, you really think I’d be an expert?”
I make an impassioned plea, locking my gaze on hers. “I don’t want a shrink or a Dear Abby. I want a real woman who's putting herself out there. Who speaks honestly and openly. I don’t want someone giving canned advice my viewers can find in any magazine or BuzzFeed piece. I want someone in the same situation my viewers are in. Dating again, figuring it out.”
She tucks one strand of hair behind one ear then another. “And it would be questions and sort of a ‘what works’ thing? Like what I’m doing now for my site with fashion, but more focused on advice to men?”
“Absolutely,” I say with enthusiasm, because I can feel her bending. “And, to be completely frank, you have an audience. I want you and your audience.”
“Greedy man,” she says as if she’s chiding me.
“I’ll give you my audience if you give me yours,” I say, dangling another carrot.
“Ooh, I love it when you talk business growth.” Her eyelashes flutter.
“I can talk business growth all day long.”
She lifts a brow. “You surf, you’re handy, you’re a video-game expert, you’re the Pied Piper of geeks, and you like business strategy. You’re too . . . fabulous.”
I straighten my shoulders, preening. “That’s me. Fabulous.”
“Seriously. How do you know all this stuff? Business and video games and fixing stuff?”
I tap my chest. “I was a double major. Business and software design.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Me too. Business and English.”
The waiter appears with our salads, sandwiches, fries, and sauces, asking if we want to know which ones he picked.
She shakes her head. “I’m all in when it comes to the sauce surprise.”
“It’s like Christmas morning.”
The waiter deposits the plates on the table then clasps his hands together, almost like he’s praying. “Now, can I get you anything else?”
She shakes her head, and I say no. After the waiter leaves, I point my thumb at him. “Is he the happiest person you have ever met?”
She whispers, “Clearly he’s eating all the ketchup.”
I waggle a fry in front of her. “C’mon, you know you want it too.”
She moves in closer and opens her lips, and damn, she has the sexiest mouth, with pink gloss and lips I want to kiss. But I’ll have to settle for feeding her a French fry.
She takes it and does an obscene eye roll that shoots electricity through my blood.
What the hell? I’m turned on by a woman eating a French fry.
Forget trust issues.
I have lust issues.
She moans as she chews, places a hand on her chest, flutters her eyes closed, and finishes the fry in the most sensual way any person in history has ever finished a French fry.
She opens her eyes. “Ohhhhhh.”
And I’ve got a screwdriver right here. With a hard drive. “Good?” It sounds like I’m talking through sandpaper.
“That is indeed orgasmic ketchup. You better have some.”
“Bring it.” I’m like a moth to a flame. I can’t resist flirting with her. I part my lips as she swipes the fry in ketchup and feeds it to me. I don’t think I can top her sensual fry-eating finesse, so I simply chew and declare it delicious.
She adopts a skeptical frown. “I don’t know. I don’t think that fry did it for you, Chris.” Somehow she says my name like it has five syllables and is the sexiest name that’s ever fallen from her lips.
“Fine, give me another.” She dips one more in a wasabi-style sauce and offers it. I lean in closer and groan as I take it. Her eyes widen at the sound I make, at the rumble in my throat.
Holy shit. Am I affecting her? By French-fry-eating? I’ll stuff them all in my mouth if that turns her on.
She swallows a little roughly, as if she’s catching her breath. Maybe I am getting under her skin.
Which is exactly what I shouldn’t try to do. But hell, it’s too fun.
I finish chewing. “Pleased now?”
“Seems like you were.”
“
I was indeed quite pleased.”
“I think we just turned this meal into a hands-on session in foreplay with French fries.”
“Foreplay is my favorite game.”
She laughs, then waves her hand. “Time to behave. And this now concludes today’s edition of Chronicles in Stimulating Fry-Eating.”
I laugh, take a bite of the chicken sandwich, and return to business. “What do you think? Are you game? I think you’d be awesome at it. And obviously, we’d strike some sort of deal so it’s beneficial for you as well.”
“Actually . . .” A glint of an idea seems to cross her eyes. “I’ve been weighing this as we eat.”
“Whoa, you’re a multitasker.”
“Yes, I can think and eat and talk all at once. And I think we can do this as a promotional deal.”
She’s piqued my curiosity even more. “How so?”
“Why don’t we cross-promote? It can be more of a marketing or promo partnership. I’m trying to expand and reach guys. This could be a good chance to reach some male viewers about the fashion looks I’m curating for young men.”
I beam, loving the way this is coming together. “That’s perfect. We want to reach the young female market. You want to connect with young men. Boom. We both get something out of this. Why don’t we do it for a few segments and see how it goes?”
“I’d love to. And maybe you’ll find some of my audience likes to play games.”
“A lot of young women do. The female gamer is one of the fastest-growing demographics in the whole video-game business, and of course, women are avid consumers of tech in general. And you’re clearly into games, since I met you when you were debating which new one to buy.”
“I blame Q*bert.”
“That wily guy is responsible for your love of games?”
“He’s completely the culprit. I kicked ass at Q*bert when I was a kid. My parents were totally into this retro bowling alley near our house, and it had all the classic arcade games.”
I reach for a fry and dip it into a lime-ginger sauce and listen to her talk.
“I used to play for hours, bouncing from square to square, level to level. The noises, the snakes, the green magic balls . . . I miss Q*bert. And I mean the real Q*bert, with the diagonal joystick, the pixelated graphics, the funky sounds.”
Like I have an ace up my sleeve, I grin at her. “How badly do you miss it?”
“A ton.” She tips her chin at me in question. “What’s the devilish little smile about?”
I lean back, all casual and cool as I drop news I think she’ll love. “I have Q*bert.”
“For the PlayStation, you mean?”
I shake my head. “I have the real Q*bert.”
“The arcade one?”
“The real deal. In my living room.”
She practically does a jig in her chair. “I’m so jealous right now. I’m having visions of eighth grade, me acing the round, punching my initials in for all the world to see.”
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Bet you can’t beat my high score.”
“Oh, you think you can take me on in Q*bert?”
“I do.”
“You’re on. Someday I will take you down. Wait.” She slaps a palm on the table. “That might be a fun thing to do on a date—play video games. I could do a bit on what to wear on a gaming date.”
“See? It’s already coming together. You have to do that as a video blog for your site—a gaming date. And then when you come on my show, the guys will have tons of questions about gaming dates.”
We make plans for her to come to the studio. I hold out a hand to shake, and from the French-fry-feeding to the orgasm talk to the way I stare at her lips, I wonder what I just got myself into.
I’ve just signed her on to be a part of my show when I want to get my hands on her.
Except that’s a limited assessment of the broad range of McKenna and the way I’m starting to feel for her. There’s more to it than wanting to touch her. I want to get to know her better too.
And I’ll have to resign myself to that and only that—talking. It’s smarter that way now that we’re working together.
If anything happened, I’d be rolling the dice on damaging what I’ve built with Geeking Out, and I can’t chance that.
We spend the rest of the meal discussing business.
After we finish, we walk down Union Street. I glance briefly at her hand, and in a flash of temptation, I want to take it, thread my fingers through hers, and experience that first touch.
I’m tempted to make that small start. A sweet little touch that’s innocent but could lead to so much more.
I squeeze my hand into a fist so I can resist reaching for her. “You know something about those fries?”
“What about those fries, Chris?”
“I will eat them in the rain. And in the dark. And on a train. And in a car. And in a tree.”
“They are so good, so good, you see.”
I should stop flirting with her, but evidently I like to play with fire.
14
McKenna
That evening, I close the blinds in my bedroom and slip into bed with my laptop, settling under the covers. It’s been a few hours since my dinner with Chris, and I know one thing for certain: I didn’t want the evening to end.
Maybe it’s because he’s easy on the eyes.
But maybe it's because he’s so easy to talk to.
I’ve only seen him three times, but each time we seem to fall into a fast and comfortable rhythm. Like we can talk about anything, and we do.
When I’m with him, innuendo seems to tumble from my lips. Orgasmic ketchup? Where did that come from? And I didn’t stop. I kept up the routine. But then, he seemed to run with it. He seemed to like it too when I took the fry from him.
Maybe that’s simply because he wants us to work together. Perhaps his flirty charm was because he had a proposition for me.
And it’s a downright appealing one.
Focus on work. Work is steady. Work is reliable.
I click open my business plan for the year ahead to center myself. Right there are my top goals: expand the reach, and reach more men. Chris is paving a potential path for me, and it’s best if I laser in on that, not on how much I want to trade words and tango with double entendres and get him to make that sexy, carnal groan again when he’s eating a French fry.
Oops. I went there.
Must not go there again.
Besides, even if there was a chance of a little something more, how would it fit into the plan we just detailed? It wouldn't. So there’s no more need to noodle on it.
Done.
Over.
Finito.
I resolve to focus on the new promotional partnership, and only that. I’ll even prove it to myself right now. I grab my phone, open the text thread, and write a message.
* * *
McKenna: I’m excited for our partnership! Thinking about it A LOT. I bet some of the women who watch my show might want to try a little Guitar Hero.
* * *
I hit send, proud of myself. Because that game rocks. Well, it did last time I played it.
I slide out of bed to brush my teeth, trying to remember when I was last slashing notes and pretending to be a guitar god. Once my choppers are scrubbed and buffed and clean as can be, I turn off the light in the bathroom then the bedroom, telling myself not to check my text messages. Instead, I pop over to the dashboard for my site, pleased to see the audience numbers are rising quickly for my dating segments. My first outing might have been a bust, but Kara from Redwood Ventures will enjoy these numbers.
She’s not the only one. I happen to be a big fan of audience growth too.
Ms. Pac-Man wanders in, bats her big brown eyes at me, and waits for my permission. “Oh, stop pretending. I know you get on the bed when I’m not here. I’ve seen your fur all over my comforter.”
I pat the bed and she jumps up, flopping down beside me.
Hmm.
When
was the last time I played Guitar Hero? Was it in college? Oh shoot. Did I just commit a massive faux pas?
I grab my phone, stabbing at the message like there’s suddenly a recall button on my text app, wishing I could take it back.
* * *
Chris: Hate to break it to you, but that game isn’t even made anymore. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news.
* * *
McKenna: Moment of truth—I actually tried to reach into the phone and retrieve the message. Just picture me digging my hands into the ether of cellular bandwidth to cover up my dorkitude.
* * *
Chris: Hey! It’s all good. I didn’t expect you to be the keeper of gaming facts. That’s my job.
* * *
McKenna: And you’re excellent at it. Turns out, the last time I played it was in college. But I do recall having a blast then.
* * *
Chris: No surprise. That game is insanely fun. The game-maker tried to reboot it a few years ago, but it didn’t go over well. Too bad, because it’s like one of those classic old-school games. I’ve been to a few arcades that have it.
* * *
McKenna: Whew. Glad I haven’t made an absolute fool of myself.
* * *
Chris: No way! Actually, now you’ve got me thinking about Guitar Hero. And wanting to play again.
* * *
McKenna: And evidently I want to play it too.
* * *
Chris: Then we will remedy this. How about a lesson after your first segment?
The Dating Proposal Page 7