She sits as I survey my wardrobe, watching me, her tail still wagging. I can’t resist. I bend down to pet her once more. My dog is the definition of loyal. I don’t need anything more.
Except I still want to know what it’s like to feel this kind of adored . . . by a person.
21
Chris
“Thank you all for attending. We’re incredibly grateful for the support of so many business owners and San Francisco icons.” The words from the head of the San Francisco Children’s Hospital echo across the ballroom as the benefit luncheon draws to a close.
I clap, stand, then say goodbye to our tablemates as I stroll out of the hotel ballroom with Cooper.
“Saw the bit you posted yesterday,” he says.
“Stalking me again on social media? You can’t get enough of me.”
“I know, I know. It’s like you’re irresistible.” He pauses. “Not.”
“And yet you watch me.”
“Hey, you watch me too,” he points out.
“That’s different. I have to if I want to watch the Renegades, and I do root for the local team in spite of its ugly-as-sin quarterback. You, however, choose to watch me because, admit it, I’m awesome.”
He cracks up. “Your modesty knows no bounds. And to think I was going to wish you luck at staying unentangled.”
I furrow my brow. “Why would you wish me luck after seeing the bit I posted?”
“You looked like you brought your girlfriend onto the show.”
“Seriously?” This is news to me. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“Have you seen how you two are together?”
“No.”
“Then watch a segment, man. You just act like you’re, I dunno, a couple.”
“We do?”
He claps my shoulder. “It’s funny when you can’t see what’s right in front of you. But yes, it’s obvious there’s a little something cooking between you two. Bet all your viewers picked up on it. The question now is, what are you going to do about it?”
I sigh heavily.
“Ah, hell. You already did something. You dog.”
“It was just a kiss.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re into her. You should bring her to karaoke night the next time we all go. Because clearly you have it bad for her.”
I shoot him my best skeptical look to avoid the complete and utter truth of his statement. “Please.”
“Just admit it. It’s obvious. Are you going to ignore it and adhere to your rules? Or are you going to throw a pass under pressure?”
I level with him. “You’re in the pocket. The line is coming at you. What do you do?”
He doesn’t need time to consider his options. He only has mere seconds—no, split seconds—when he’s on the field to make a call. Decisions come quickly to a quarterback. “If I see an opening, I go for it. Always go for it.”
I nod, considering his sports wisdom, searching for a way to make it fit my game plan.
Trouble is, he’s talking about a high-stakes game played in front of millions every Sunday. He has to go for it.
The rules of my world are different.
At least, I think they are.
Cooper is right.
The viewers aren’t the only ones who see something. Bruce does too. He’s all grins when he pokes his head into the studio as we record our segment Saturday morning.
“Vince in San Diego wants to know how to tell the difference between a lie and the truth.” I toss the question to the dating expert.
McKenna makes a yikes face. “Bring a lie detector with you. Carry it in a murse. It’s the only way to be certain.”
I laugh but soldier on. “Seriously though. He asks: ‘Does a cancellation, a phone call from a friend, or a mention that she has someplace to be after coffee or drinks mean she’s not into you?’”
McKenna seems to consider the question, then answers, “That’s the thing about human communication. We don’t always know. It’s entirely possible she truly has someplace to be. But it’s also possible she needs an out. And . . . wait for it . . . it might mean both.”
I clasp my skull. “My head is spinning now.”
She touches my arm. “I know, right? It’s hieroglyphics sometimes, dating. That’s why I say your best bet is to be honest and straightforward. Forget games. Just ask her out again, and her answer will make it clear. At the end of the day, if a woman wants to see you, she’ll make time for you. And likewise, I’d say that to all women too. Don’t make excuses for him. If he wants to date you, he’ll show up.”
I mime banging a drum. “Truer words. And wait, before I let you go, I have another question I think you’re going to love. Don from Tallahassee wants to know if he should wear sneakers, boots, or boat shoes on an upcoming mini-golf date.”
McKenna’s blue-gold eyes flicker with delight as I tell her more about Don’s outfit options for the upcoming date. She settles on hip sneakers and tells him to save the boots for dinner. “After all, it’s mini golf you’re doing.”
I gesture to my feet. I’m wearing casual loafers. “I swear, I only wear flip-flops to play mini golf.”
“Well, I hope you have nice feet, then, that look good in flip-flops,” she says, a glint in those eyes.
“They’re quite handsome nearly naked, thank you very much.”
The producer calls cut, and we’re done.
Bruce chuckles as he strides over to us. “You two ought to date for real. I’m just saying.”
I scoff.
McKenna double scoffs.
He clasps my shoulder. “Ah, don’t be such a knucklehead.” He turns to McKenna. “I mean, I’m not telling you what to do, Fashion Queen. You’re both grown-ups, and you can make these decisions all by yourselves. But you should consider it. Then it’d be really fun for viewers to throw questions at you.” He steps back and sweeps his hands out like he’s lighting up a marquee. “Picture this: you can answer based on how your dinner-and-a-movie night went. Wouldn't that be funny?” He nudges me. “Funny sells. Funny helps ratings.”
I’m speechless. I honestly don’t know what to say. I glance at McKenna, and she’s quiet too.
“You don’t have to smooch or be all kissy face. Just go out and grade each other. A dating report card. Now that’s funny!” He holds up his hands in surrender. “Just kidding, just joking. Don’t look so serious.” He nods toward the door. “And speaking of dinner and a movie, the little lady and I have a date tonight.” He sweeps out of the studio, his preposterous idea trailing behind him.
But as I flash back to the way things ended at the taco shop, to Cooper’s comments, to the way I feel when I’m with McKenna, maybe it’s not so preposterous after all.
When he’s gone, McKenna gives me a what was that all about look and pushes out a laugh. “He’s a little overeager.”
Okay, so maybe she thinks it’s preposterous.
I slap on a smile. “Yeah, definitely.”
See? If there was more cooking, she’d say something, right? Isn’t that what she just said on the segment? Or does she want me to say something? But we’re not really dating. That’s already been established—by both of us.
I do my best to put Bruce’s ideas and Cooper’s advice out of my head as we make our way out of the studio, discussing how the partnership is going. I share some early numbers, and she tosses some in my direction too. And this—this is clarity. There is no secret language of dating to decipher when we’re talking numbers.
Everything adds up to business only.
When we reach the door, she smiles again. “This is going well, isn’t it?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
Except that’s a lie, and I don’t need to run a lie detector test on her to see if she can tell.
She knows it. She reads me. She senses it.
And that’s when I grab hold of Cooper’s advice. That’s when I decide Bruce’s zany idea isn’t so preposterous at all. I’m ready to ask her to ca
ncel the girls’ night out and go out with me instead, when her phone trills.
She fishes around in her purse, grabs it, and says, “Aha! It’s Handy Andy. I need to take this call. See you next time.”
And she walks away.
The wave crests, and I catch it, riding it beautifully to the shore. The surf is fantastic this afternoon, and I could spend hours in the water. Hours enjoying the crash of the swells, the chance to catch a perfect one, and the challenge of not getting pulled too far under.
But I keep thinking about that damn girls’ night out.
And her meeting other guys.
And her coffee class.
And her setups.
And when the next wave comes, I slide into it wrong, and the sea yanks me under forcefully, the ocean a furious beast. Water clogs my throat and swarms my nose, and when I come up, I’m done.
Done with the waves.
Done with the water.
And done with her being out there.
I trudge my way to the shore, load up my board, and get in my car.
I call her.
Texting is for guys who don’t know what they want.
22
McKenna
I gather my purse and keys as I finish the instructions for Ms. Pac-Man. “Now feel free to enjoy the window view, but don’t go crazy if you see Michelangelo.”
She tilts her head like she doesn’t know who I mean.
“Don’t play coy with me. You know who he is,” I whisper conspiratorially. “The horny pug.”
She growls at the little perv every time he walks by. He tried to hump her once in public.
She lifts her chin higher, asking for a rub. I oblige, scratching her fur. “I know. You’re a lady dog. You don’t like his cavedog routine.”
She whacks her tail against the floor in reply. Damn straight.
With my phone stuffed at the bottom of my trendy periwinkle-blue Kate Spade purse—since I don’t like when people spend more time on their phones than with the actual company they’re keeping—I meet Hayden and catch a Lyft to The Tiki Bar in Fillmore, where we search for Erin and Julia at the venue serving tapas and big, fiery drinks.
The second we find them in a corner booth, Erin shoves a flaming red beverage at me.
I arch a brow. “Vas is das?”
Erin smiles impishly. “Who cares? It’s delish.”
Julia nods. “It has the bartender seal of approval.”
I taste it—it’s tangy and sweet with a fiery kick. “Tequila and cherry?”
“Something like that. Sort of like you,” Erin says, her big earrings jangling.
“How am I tequila and cherry?”
“You’re sweet on the outside, and all sorts of fierce on the inside.”
I take another drink, considering. Is that me? Am I sweet but full of fire? If I were, wouldn’t I have ignored Andy’s call, grabbed Chris by the collar, and said Take me out tonight?
But I didn’t because I’m only three dates into my new world order, and I still don’t know the next steps in the dance. Maybe it’s easier to be alone. It’s certainly safer. Especially since he’s not dating people he works with, and I’m not ready for something serious.
I do my best to push Chris from my mind. The ear-splitting beat of pop tunes overhead does its part.
Erin taps a lacquered red fingernail on the table. “So . . . what’s the story? Am I setting you up with the cyclist?”
I shrug. “Can I take a rain check? I’m sort of in a time-out at the moment.”
“Already?”
Hayden jumps in. “Hey, dating is hard. Our girl managed three dates in the last two weeks, not to mention all those non-dates with Chris.”
Warmth rushes over me at the mention of his name.
Erin motions with her fingers, wiggling them towards her. “Give me the goods. I’ve been slammed at work the last few days.”
As I serve up the deets, we go into a full-on girl huddle. We crowd around the table, tuck in, shoulders hunched. When I’m done with the update, Erin shakes her head in admiration. “I’m impressed.”
“At what?” I ask, incredulous.
“At your restraint.”
“I should have humped him at the table in the taco bar? Like Michelangelo, the horny pug?”
Erin cracks up, slapping the table. “You could totally go full horny pug on him.”
I shake my head, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m just saying. Michelangelo knows what he wants.”
“My dog does not want to be humped by a rando.”
“I don’t think Chris is a rando.”
“You, my friend, are too sex-crazed.”
She furrows her brow. “No such thing. I just happen to like sex on the regular. Pete and I have a very healthy sex life, and I think you’d rather enjoy having one too.”
“Oh, you think so? Is that it? Like that never occurred to me before.”
She knocks back more of her drink then pats my hand, her tone shifting to earnest. “Actually, you have a healthy attitude. You’re approaching getting back on the wagon in a thoughtful manner. You’ve re-entered the dating world with panache, I’d say.”
Julia raises a glass. “To panache.”
“To our man shield,” Erin jokes, as she gestures to our positions and the way we’ve blockaded the rest of the bar.
Hayden draws a circle in the air with her finger. “There is no man strong enough to penetrate our force field of woman-dom.”
“Can you even imagine who’d have the cajones to try to inject himself into this huddle?” I ask, smiling and grateful that I’m enjoying a night out with my best friends. I like, too, that I can do this without needing a man, looking for a man, or hurting over one. “Just let someone try to tell me to cancel this girls’ night.”
A masculine voice interrupts our reverie.
“I’d tell you to cancel it.”
When I look up, Chris is there, staring at me with a hot green-eyed gaze that makes me flush.
All. Over.
23
Chris
There are certain rules you don’t break as a man.
Don’t stare at another dude’s junk while he’s taking a piss.
Don’t carry a murse.
And don’t interrupt a girls’ night out.
Unless you want to face down a den of lionesses.
But sometimes, you say screw the rules. I’ve battled zombies and artillery-spewing soldiers on a death mission. Hell, I’ve defeated piranha plants and moonsnakes and beat the game.
I know the way to a woman at a time like this is through her friends, so I address them first. “My apologies for barging in on the sanctity of a girls’ night, but I can’t let another guy have the chance to go on a date with this fantastic woman before I do.”
McKenna clasps her hand to her mouth, and I feel like a king.
I meet her eyes, loving the way they spark with delight, with happiness. “I don’t have a clue where this thing between us is going, but I can’t stand the thought of you going to a coffee or cheese or wine or sewing or shampooing or how-to-install-a-shower-door class and meeting some other guy. If you and I dated, I’d make sure you wanted to do all that with me and only me. How does that sound to you?”
Her smile is the stuff of dating legends. “I totally want to take a how-to-install-a-shower-door class with you.”
When she jumps to her feet, grabs my face, and plants a searing kiss on my lips, I upgrade my status to Rock Star. The kiss short-circuits my brain and fries wires I didn’t know were running through my head, charging me up.
McKenna breaks the contact, smiling like that’s all she wanted to hear from me, and hell, I’m grinning too.
Her friends cheer us on, and they're beaming too. And it’s as if I threw a game-winning touchdown. I’m on top of the world. “I should have done that at the taco shop,” I tell her.
“I should have said something too,” she says. “And for the record, I never
kissed any of those guys. Nothing ever happened with any of them. And I didn’t want to meet anyone tonight. After you kissed me, I had no interest in going out and trying to meet a guy at a bar.”
My lips curve up in a grin. Pride suffuses me. “Is that so? I ruined you for other kisses?”
“Yes,” she says with an over-the-top pout. “And the whole time I was out with the guy from coffee class, I was the worst date ever.”
I loop a hand around her waist, yanking her close, glad that I can. “Why’s that?”
“I was thinking about you and that epic kiss. And how I wanted to do that with you again. I was officially no fun as a date.”
And now I’m simply a happy guy because that’s music to my ears. “Good. I’d like to ruin you in other ways though.”
A throat clears.
Or maybe a few do.
Feet shuffle and heels click, and three lovely ladies stand and make their excuses. “I can see we aren’t needed,” says the redhead.
“Glad you came to your senses,” the tall brunette says.
“Happy banging,” remarks the spiky-haired woman.
I like that hello and goodbye best.
“You guys don’t have to go,” McKenna says to her pack.
“Yes, we do,” the redhead insists.
“Wait. Let me introduce you first.”
McKenna makes quick introductions to Julia, Hayden, and Erin, and then they scurry out of The Tiki Bar, and she pulls me down next to her in the booth.
“You sure they’re okay with this? Me crashing your night out?”
Her smile is full-wattage. “They’re more than okay with it. But how did you find me?”
“I had a tracker put on your ankle,” I deadpan.
She glances down at her foot, and then extends one very sexy leg across my thighs. “Is that so?” she says in a purr.
Damn. She’s delicious. I take advantage of this new thing between us—I don’t know what else to call it—and run my hand over her silky skin. “It’s right here,” I say, circling my fingers around her ankle, which looks outrageously hot in that black, red-soled shoe. I know fuck-all about fashion, but I know one thing—red-soled shoes are sex in heel form.
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