by PE Kavanagh
THE THIRTY-TWO HOURS until Saturday evening flew by in a haze of work and excitement. Lola hadn’t been on a date, or at least one she cared about, in months. The last one never went past the awkward dinner, at which she so completely lost her appetite that she had to pick up Thai food later that night.
Lola had a hunch this would be a special night, unlikely to include any cafeterias, dive bars, or the inability of her date to chew with his mouth closed. This date felt special and going casual with jeans and a blouse was not going to cut it. Her A-game hadn’t gotten much airtime recently, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying.
After a long, leisurely shower, she took out the fancy glass jar of lotion her mother had sent her from California. If ever there was an occasion for a slow, luxurious slather of the honey-scented cream, this was the night.
Lola unwrapped the safety seal of the jar that had sat unopened for months. She rubbed the cream into her freshly shaved legs and laughed to herself. I’m making such a big deal about this guy and this date. Maybe she’d been been single for too long. Or maybe Aidan deserved her attention, even past the obvious physical attraction. Something about him spoke of promises that were actually kept.
Even in the competitive landscape of the New York City dating scene, Lola could hold her own. No matter that she opted out more often than not. At twenty-nine, she was in as good shape as she had ever been, thanks to a childhood of sports, her best friend's current obsession with kick-boxing, and the genes from her mother’s side of the family. She had the leggy athletic figure that nearly all the women on that side shared, and out of whatever else she inherited from her crazy lineage, that was a gift.
Getting noticed was never the problem. Even the guys who preferred petite, curvy, or buxom women were intrigued by her exotic features. But finding a man who was smart, sane, and sexy had proven impossible. Especially with her aversion to disorder, and rampant suspicions about the inevitable chaos that came with romantic engagements.
Lola rubbed the lotion over her arms, legs, and abdomen. It felt good to be touched, even if it was by her own hand. Her finger traced the edge of the faded tan line around the peach of her bottom, then she gave her cheek a big squeeze. It was a good ass - the meatiest part of her body, and more than enough to fill her jeans nicely. The thought of a man - that man - looking at her, touching her, and wanting her was exciting enough to dampen some of her nervousness about the evening.
She’d mastered the art of hiding. Maybe the time for letting go, for taking a chance, had arrived. Even if it only lasted for an evening, it would be a good first step toward getting back in the game.
The perfect dress practically leapt out of her messy closet and into her arms. The bias-cut silk was the color of a stormy sky - not blue, not grey, not purple, but a mix of all three. The luscious material screamed touch me, or at least she hoped it did. The simple cut caressed her lean body, showing just a peek of cleavage and a slice of leg. For a bit of flash, she chose pewter stilettos with crystals around the ankle.
Heads turned, eyes shifted and smiles erupted as Lola made her way out of her apartment, down the hall, into the elevator, through the lobby, and finally out to the sidewalk into the waiting car. The attention felt great. In a few minutes, one more set of remarkable eyes would hopefully be skimming the length of her. What would he think? What did he want? She dared not ask, even to herself, whether what she had would be enough.
When she looked down at her phone to guide the driver, she realized that Aidan had only sent her an address, with no restaurant name. Her senses sharpened, and she scanned her body for an intuitive signal. What if this was a scam? What if he was crazy or dangerous?
She considered stepping out of the car, back into her apartment, but something whispered no. She needed to do this. The car headed downtown, then to the east side. Her heart pounded.
The car turned the corner and slowed. As the driver craned his neck to locate the building, she spotted Aidan. In front of an all-black building, wearing a dark shirt and pants, he nearly blended in, except for the bright white of his smile, growing bigger as he saw her.
A flurry of doubts returned as the car came to a stop - this is too isolated, too weird, I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. But still, she pulled the silver handle, pushed the door open, and stepped out, one sparkly ankle at a time.
They stood face to face. He smelled like something she would want to taste - sweet and earthy, with a hint of spice.
“Hi,” he said, his eyes sparkling. “Wow…”
“Hi.” She took a step back. “Where are we?”
“It looks kind of sketchy doesn’t it?”
“A little.” More than a little.
“I appreciate your coming anyway. I love a woman who’s a little bit fearless.”
That’s me. And really not me. All at the same time.
He placed his hand on her back and led her to a discrete door in the all black wall, as if she had been transported into a Bond movie.
It was only slightly brighter inside the door than outside. With his hand firmly around her waist, he led her through the long corridor. She kept waiting for a chill or some indication of danger. None came.
The narrow corridor erupted into a candlelit courtyard, filled by a handful of tables around an ornate fountain. Two other couples were already seated, eating. Music emanated from somewhere. Maybe God was singing. It was breathtakingly beautiful.
A wisp of a woman greeted them under the stone archway. “Mr. Connelly. Welcome.” She lowered her extravagant lashes in slow motion.
Aidan dipped his head in her direction. “Thank you.” He gestured toward the opulent space before turning to Lola. “What do you think?”
The disparate pieces of information began to form into a coherent thought. “This is one of those secret supper clubs, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” He studied her face, waiting for her reaction.
“Wow. I’ve never even known how to find one, much less get in. This is amazing.”
He stood behind her as she slid into her seat. “I’m glad you like it.”
Lola took a breath to compose herself. “You must be really well connected.”
“I don’t know about that. I just really love food. And food in beautiful places. With a beautiful view.” He spoke directly into her eyes.
Lola averted her gaze to focus on the marble fountain, gurgling and bubbling with glee, doing great justice to the Roman courtyard it surely came from. The urge to dunk herself into cool water rose from her low back. She was overheating. Too much nervous tension. And sexual energy.
Lola exhaled and immersed herself in everything going on in the small space - twinkling of fairy lights, clinking of metal on ceramic, hushed voices, savory scents. And his beautiful face, framed in coffee brown centered by magical golden eyes.
A baritone pierced her reverie. “Good evening. Welcome to Kama,” said the thin young waiter.
Did he say Kama, like Kama Sutra? Lord help me.
“May I offer you the signature cocktail, or anything from the bar?”
“What’s the cocktail?” Alcohol - good.
“The aperitif was specially selected to open and engage the palate prior to the meal and contains house-infused blood orange vodka, ginger essence and a topping of Cava.”
As if it had been designed especially for ME. “Yes, that sounds perfect. Thank you.”
“I’ll have a Macallan, neat.” Aidan added.
He turned to look at her, fixing his gaze in a way she didn’t understand. “You look beautiful, Lola. I’ve been waiting for the perfect words to come to me, but maybe there are no words…”
She wanted to touch her cheeks, to make sure they hadn't actually caught on fire. She resisted. “Thank you, Aidan.”
He continued. “Beguiling. That’s pretty close. But incomplete. You look like you were created, maybe by some sorcerer. Features from… I can’t place it.”
Lola looked directly at him. This conversation,
she knew how to have. “It’s okay. I’ve got an unusual mix of nationalities. Most people can’t figure it out.”
“I spent some time in Bali. You could be Balinese. But there’s something else in there, with those green eyes of yours.”
“British and Irish, from my dad and granddad. My grandmother was a native Hawaiian.”
Aidan’s eyes grew wide. “Yes! I totally see it.”
Lola tilted her head. “You do?”
“Well, from one mutt to another, I get the whole blending thing. And your family really got it right, Lola. If we ever create humans in a lab, they should use your DNA.”
“I’m hoping to keep my DNA to myself.”
“That’s a shame. A great loss to humankind.”
She liked his sense of humor. He just might be able to keep up with me.
He continued. “Tell me more about your family.”
“It’s funny. They would tell stories that my grandmother appeared on the beach, out of nowhere, and my grandfather found her while he was surfing. Those were the fairy tales of my childhood. No one would admit it wasn't true. My family likes magical, mystical stories. So it’s hard to get the real scoop.”
“That sounds real enough to me.” His eyes glowed.
Enough talking about me. “So, you’re a mutt too?”
“Yup. We share the Irish thing. My dad was fresh off the boat. My mom is Trinidadian.”
It all made sense once he said it. His skin, his hair, his eyes. “I was going to mention that you don’t look like a typical Aidan Connelly. But the islands… that explains a lot.”
He looked at her curiously. Had she offended him? Or maybe he didn’t understand her humor? Lola tried again, more carefully. “You’ve also got an unusual look. An interesting combination of features. But you must hear that pretty often.”
“Not really. I don’t think men get scrutinized quite as much. I just let people assume whatever they want.”
She imagined looking into those eyes as he brought his full mouth to hers. He probably tasted like caramel. A loud laugh came from the next table, snapping her back into the present. She caught herself staring at him. He grinned.
“What do you do, Aidan?” She had to get her thoughts back on track.
His face changed and his tone became serious. “I’m a recovering investment banker. I got to Wall Street right after the big crash and left a few years ago."
"Ugh, I know so many people who lost everything in the recession. I can’t imagine beginning a career under those conditions.”
"I did fine. Better than fine, actually, and I liked the challenge of making money when everyone was tanking. But it all got out of hand. I saw the ultimate outcome from a life of greed. It was an eye-opener on so many levels and made me ashamed to be in the same industry as all those thieves and criminals.”
She wasn’t ready for the heaviness of his words. “What do you do now?”
“I’ve been traveling, dabbling, doing some… freelancing.”
“Freelancing?”
“More like consulting, I guess. I have a few individual clients who keep me busy enough. And I really like having space in my days. My previous life was all about the race. Now, I like to pause and linger.”
His words were familiar. “That sounded downright literary. Do you write?”
He ran his hand through the front of his hair. “Promise not to laugh?”
“No promises. Sorry.” A flirty batting of her lashes completed the tease.
“Wow. Tough crowd. But since you were brave enough to show up in the middle of nowhere, I’ll be brave enough to tell you.” He looked down, briefly. Was this man self-conscious? “I write poetry. I spent the past two years in Asia, and I got into all these different types of poems.”
“Like haiku?”
“Yes, and a few others. Tanka, Pantoum, Sijo. Ones most people have never heard of. They’re all pretty simple. The antithesis of Victorian sonnets and iambic pentameter. I'm all about simplicity.”
“That’s impressive. Poetry requires access to the abstract, which is difficult for many people.”
“You sound like a writer. An actual writer.”
“Yes, well… I manage She magazine. I used to write a lot, but now I mostly oversee other people’s writing. Then there’s this book I started writing long ago that’s still unfinished.”
He tilted his head toward her. “What’s it about?”
“It’s a love story. Yes, chick lit,” she said with a deprecating nod.
“You seem like a person of depth. I'm sure there’s more to it than that.”
“Well, maybe.” She wanted to squirm at the discomfort of being seen this clearly without being known at all, but she held her body still. “It’s about how women keep having to redeem and resurrect themselves when society’s messaging poisons their intimate relationships.”
He nodded, watching her. Lola could almost feel him absorbing her into his awareness, swallowing her thoughts into his body. “That’s profound. Is it a personal story?”
“It’s fiction. But yes, I write from some experience of poisoned relationships.”
His smile fell away into concern. “I’m sorry to hear that, Lola.” He reached his hand across the table and wrapped it around hers.
The drinks came just in time. Lola had gotten so used to being offended or bored by her dates that this level of connection was disconcerting. He actually seemed to care. And did not release her hand.
“Delicious,” she whispered after the first sip. “I would never have been able to guess what’s in here, if he hadn’t told us.”
Lola looked at their entwined hands, skin in similar tones, but different in nearly every other way. His hand was wider, warmer and more worn, the hands of a man who’d held onto something. She imagined the hint of callus underneath his middle finger running down her back. Or that large hand grabbing the flesh of her bottom and squeezing.
Once again, the waiter startled her. “Your first courses will be out momentarily.”
She flipped her head from one man to the other. “But we haven’t ordered.”
Aidan smiled.
The waiter didn’t. “Yes, miss, the menu is fixed. The chef has chosen for you.”
“Thank you." She tried not to be irritated by his arrogance. Of course she knew what a fixed menu was.
Aidan squeezed her hand. “Tell me more about your writing. Or your work. Or your life. Or anything you want to tell me.”
“That’s quite a lot.” Lola couldn’t pull her eyes from his long fingers.
“That’s okay. I have all the time in the world.”
She had to look up to check his expression. “Very funny.”
“Not really. I want to know everything about you.” A shiver traveled up her spine. She believed him.
“Maybe we’ll start with dinner. We can tackle the rest of my life later.” That sounded bitchy. Just because she’d met every asshole in NY, didn’t mean that he was also one. It also didn't mean that he wasn't one. This was scrambling her brain.
“I don’t think I know anyone in the magazine business. Is this what you always wanted to do?”
“My first love was writing. I wanted to write the great American novel. But pragmatism won over passion. I love the magazine – I couldn’t work at some fashion rag, or something that degrades women. The message is important. But it’s really the writing that gets me. It’s important that it touches my heart.”
He tilted his head to the left. “What touches your heart?”
“I don’t know how to answer that question.” Her jaw tightened, signaling approach to a boundary.
He moved his head closer to hers, which made the small size of the table even more evident. “What’s dearest to you?”
Her face warmed again. “That might not be first-date-having-dinner kind of conversation, Aidan.” Can he tell I’m afraid?
“When would you like to have that conversation, Lola? I’ll be there.”
There was n
ot enough air in the room for the breath she needed to take, which made speaking coherently challenging. “I’ll let you know.”
“Promise?”
“No promises. Sorry.”
His face brightened as if she had just spoken the most enlightening phrase in human history. “I don’t know why I keep forgetting that. I’ll try harder, Lola.”
Despite her swirling thoughts and his devilish smirks, the conversation moved smoothly. He listened, paid attention and seemed to understand her. He said the right things, constantly. And when he wasn’t speaking, he sat there, smiling at her, in a way that was unnervingly seductive.
She wanted time to examine his face, but every time she tried, he was already looking at her. Why couldn’t he gaze at the twinkling lights, or the carved figures underneath the ivy on the gurgling fountain? Even concentrating on his drink would have helped. But no, he insisted on looking at her. So her attention was forced outward, downward or inward. There was almost nowhere safe to turn.
As the first plates arrived, she realized he had taken her dinner requests to heart. The chef, whose name she recognized as soon as he said it, was from the hottest Japanese restaurant in the city, moonlighting at this secret spot. Every course was more beautiful and delicious than the next, and Lola, who never pretended to be a dainty eater, kept up with Aidan, plate for plate.
They had both arrived at the end of their favorite course thus far. “I ate all the octopus,” he said, with a guilty look, “please have this fig.” It was sitting alone on the center dish, otherwise wiped clean.
“Alright,” she agreed, but did not expect him to pick it up with his fingers and bring it slowly toward her mouth, dark purple sauce dripping across the top of his index finger. She opened her lips only just enough for him to slide it in.
His fingers lingered long enough for her lips to catch the small drip. Something in the lowest part of her belly melted.
She chewed for a long time, gathering herself to speak. “Thank you. That was delicious.”
He briefly drew his bottom lip in and gave it a small bite. “I can feed you any of the next courses that way, if you like.”
Her imagination vaulted to his lips on hers, his tongue exploring, while she tasted the char of the octopus and the sweetness of the figs. And then she remembered he had said something. Something provocative, and the flash of imagination relinquished to the reality of their seats on either side of the table, having exchanged no lips or tongues. “Perhaps we’ll stick with cutlery, if that’s okay with you.”