by Meghan Quinn
“That’s good, thanks.” He pulls my legs down and lays them across his lap, his fingers massaging my calf muscles. “How are you doing, Sassy?”
“Good.” I smile over the rim of my coffee mug. “How about you?”
“Fantastic.”
“Good.” I nod my head awkwardly, unsure of what else to say.
“Morning afters not really your thing?”
“Just, never done one before I guess, not with someone so new. And we didn’t really have sex-sex, so to me it even seems more awkward. I mean, I put my mouth on your dick, but our privates never actually touched. Don’t you think that’s weird?”
“No,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Sometimes just engaging in the act of sex is all that’s needed.”
I nod, my lips pursed. “Did you not want to do it with me?” It’s an odd question to ask, but I’m curious about the holdup.
“I did, but I knew you weren’t ready. Honestly, I wanted to help you relax. I wasn’t expecting anything in return, but when you started undoing my pants, I couldn’t stop you. I wanted to feel those lips on my rock-hard cock.”
“What do you mean you knew I wasn’t ready?”
“I could see it on your eyes. You were unsure. I didn’t want to pressure you into anything. So I kept it simple.”
Thoughtful, sexy, and domineering, I should be head over heels in lust right now, but for some reason I’m not.
And I think I know why.
“Thank you, I was really nervous last night.” I bite my bottom lip and say, “I usually have more of an emotional connection with men before I jump into bed with them.”
Sitting back, Beck asks, “You don’t feel an emotional connection with me?” The pull in his brow is telling me he’s truly confused.
“I don’t mean to insult you, Beck, because you are really amazing. I know dating isn’t something I’m very experienced at, but we seem to be very physical with each other.” And it’s great, but I think I should be expecting more. I know I want more, but is that realistic?
“Nothing wrong with that, Sassy.”
His hand goes up to my knee and a part of me wants to dissolve into the lounge and let him take over, but a larger part of me stops him before he can go further.
“Why won’t you tell me about your divorce?”
That stops him.
Removing his hand from my knee, he rubs his jaw and sighs. “It’s not something I want to talk about.”
“Why? Are you still in love with her?”
He shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
Okay, there goes that theory.
I set my coffee cup on the ground next to me and press my hands against Beck’s. “Are you scared I’m going to judge you? I won’t, if that’s what you’re worried about. Getting married at such a young age—”
“It wasn’t that. We were ready when we got married. We just went our separate ways.”
Feeling a little disheartened, but wanting to be honest since I’m in this dating program for a reason, I say, “Beck, are you ready to be dating someone? You say you are, and you want to get out there, but I don’t think your heart is in it . . . or your mind.”
He’s silent for a second, his gaze cast toward the ocean. “I want to forget it all, the last eight years. I wish there was a way to wipe it from my memory.”
“Wipe what?”
He shakes his head, and I realize right then and there, no matter how much I push, how much I question him, Beck isn’t going to talk because he’s not mentally ready. If there is one thing I know well, you can’t force anyone to talk if they don’t want to.
What’s sad is, I don’t know if he will ever talk, at least to me.
We sit in silence, both our minds wandering, our euphoric night a distant memory, and our impending future closing with each breath we take. At least, that’s what I’m feeling.
“I like you,” Beck finally says. That makes me smile. He really is a wonderful man.
“I like you too.”
“But not enough, right?”
“It’s not about liking you or not, Beck, or my attraction to you, because that’s all there. In spades if I’m honest. It’s about making a connection on another level, and I don’t think you’re mentally ready for that. You need to clear out the tainted headspace you’re hanging on to.”
Huffing out a long breath, Beck runs his hand through his hair. “Fuck,” he mutters.
“Yeah, fuck,” I repeat, feeling sad.
“You want more.” So much.
“I want it all. The marriage, the husband, the children. I’m already there, looking for it, but I think you’re just coming out of the fog you were in.”
Laughing, he says, “Yeah, kind of not ready to be married again quite yet.”
“Understandable.” We smile at each other, a general understanding of one another passing between us.
For the next twenty minutes, we joke around, drink cold coffee, and talk about nonsense, never diving past the surface. When it’s time, I help Beck gather his things and walk him to my front door.
Turning toward me, he pulls me into a hug and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “You’re amazing, Sassy, you know that, right?”
“I do now.” I squeeze his waist, already feeling the loss of his fresh, rebel-ish attitude.
Sighing heavily, he pulls away and tips my chin up. “If you don’t find Prince Charming right away, message me, okay?”
“Deal.”
He presses a light kiss against my lips, and with a sad, yet devastating smile, he leaves. Pressing my body against the doorjamb, my arms folded over my chest, I watch Beck mount his bike, put on his helmet, and roar the engine to life. After a tilt of his head in my direction, Beck takes off down the road and out of my life.
***
“Oh my God, Dylan, it was the cutest place I’ve ever been to. Every kitchen was different and there were professionals walking around, giving you privacy but also helping you out if you needed it. Perfect for any type of date.”
“Especially for a second date with The Rebel, right?” She wiggles her eyebrows at me and takes a drink of her mimosa.
“It was the perfect date, recommended by Going in Blind. They must have gone around the city and found every possible dating excursion, and after experiencing it for themselves, mashed it up in their system to suggest it to the right couples who would enjoy it. Genius, really.”
“So you had a good time?”
“I had an amazing time. The Rebel did most of the cooking, which was fun for me. I sat back and drank wine while he worked his way around a fifties-themed kitchen in a white frilly apron.”
“Did you get pictures?”
I shake my head, really hating this conversation, but knowing I have to have it, thanks to Kevin. I smile into the camera and shake my head. “No pictures, unfortunately.”
“That’s a bit of a fail on your part.” This makes me laugh. What I’m sharing now is most definitely the PG-13 version of what we talked about in hair and makeup. When I described what the photos would look like, because, yeah, Beck is hot, Dylan actually blushed. I’m amazed she’s holding it together now.
“Even if I took pictures, and even though I love our viewers, I wouldn’t be sharing those here. I’m sure my dating harem would like to keep their privacy.” I learned that lesson pretty darn quickly, so that last comment is aimed at Kevin. Thanks for ruining Mr. Suit’s future.
“Harem? Is that what you’re calling it?”
“It’s going to be a harem soon,” I sigh, leaning back on the couch, temporarily forgetting I’m still on camera.
Looking a little uneasy, Dylan asks, “What does that mean?”
“Ugh, I had a great time with The Rebel, like the best time ever. We clicked on so many levels, but . . .”
“But what?” Dylan is sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting for my response.
“It just didn’t work out. We’re on different wavelengths right now. But it’s okay. We
ended things on a wonderful note, and I’m sure I’ll see him again. Even if it’s just as a friend. No doubt in my mind.”
“So what does this mean?”
I shrug. “Going back to the drawing board I guess. I know the right man for me is out there and honestly, Going in Blind has brought me closer to happiness than I’ve experienced in a long time.”
“So you’re going to throw your name in the hat again?”
I bring the champagne flute to my mouth and take a sip. After I swallow, I say, “I am, because as they say, third time’s the charm.”
PART THREE
THE JOCK
Chapter Twenty-One
NOELY
“So you give the guy a blow job and then send him on his way? How does that work?”
“Can you keep your voice down?” I ask, lifting a ten-pound dumbbell overhead only to start counting out my tricep extensions.
“I’m sorry but you sprang this breakup on me this morning without any kind of background information. I thought Beck was it. He was charming, hot, domineering, had a motorcycle. What more could you want?” Dylan is still reeling over my “split” with Beck, can’t you tell? I truly think she’s living vicariously through me.
“He was very closed off. He wouldn’t talk about anything that delved too deep into who he was or his past.”
“So? He dry-humped you on a motorcycle, that should be reason enough to stick around.”
I give Dylan a pointed look as our trainer makes a huffing sound next to us.
“I’m not using Going in Blind as a hookup app. If I wanted to find someone to have sex with, I would join Tinder. This is different for me, Dylan. I want to find someone I can spend the rest of my life with, someone who wants kids—a family—who can understand my work schedule but also demand some attention himself. I want what you and Chad have.”
“Two demonic children and morning shower sex?”
Chuckling, I nod, “Yes.”
“Do you want to borrow Chad and the kids, see if it’s something you’re really interested in?”
I pull up a BOSU ball and start doing pushups, my breath becoming labored. “Thank you for whoring out your husband to me, but I think I want to try to find my own.”
“He’s yours if you want him.” Resting against the wall, not putting any effort into our workout like normal, Dylan asks, “So it’s really over with The Rebel? Like really, truly over?”
“For now, yeah. I mean, he said if I don’t find what I’m looking for, he wants me to message him.”
“So he’s waiting around?”
“I hope . . . not,” I grunt, performing my last pushup. I roll to the side and sit on my butt, legs spread out, sweat dripping down my chest. “Honestly, he seems to have some demons. I hope he’s trying to work through those, because until he does, he can’t move forward, not just with me, but in life.”
“Damn.”
“Dylan, are you going to finish your workout today?” our trainer asks, looking less than pleased at my co-host.
Bending at the waist, Dylan grabs her calf and lamely says, “Charlie horse, ouch.”
Our trainer rolls his eyes and I’m pretty sure if Dylan wasn’t paying on a monthly basis, and paying well, he would have dumped her as a client. But the money keeps rolling in so he continues to pretend to train her, despite how frustrating it can be.
Throwing in the towel, our trainer gives us a quick rundown of the rest of the week’s schedule and sends us off to the smoothie bar—Dylan’s favorite part of her “workout”—so we can replenish our bodies with the right nutrients.
I order the kale protein smoothie with Greek yogurt and chia seeds, the smoothie our trainer tells us to drink, while Dylan picks the berry bliss smoothie that is full of sugar. How she keeps her figure, I have no idea.
Taking a seat at a high-top table with smoothies in hand, Dylan sucks on her straw, eyes marveling in her flavorful drink. “God, this is so good, much better than that kale crap that gets caught in your straw.”
“It’s really good, actually.” Sort of.
If you tell yourself it’s good, then your taste buds follow suit, right?
“So what’s next? Do you go on another date? Are you going to quit the program? From my view, it doesn’t seem to be working. Two guys down, no promises of happily ever after in your future.”
She sure knows how to make a girl feel good.
“I think I’m going to try again. I mean, why not? So far, the matches have been dead on, almost perfect. I’ve had so much in common with both guys in different ways, but the timing has just been . . . off.”
“Is that what you’re calling it? Timing? Couldn’t it be that the men you keep being matched with have some kind of underlining issue?”
“Not issue, just . . . you know . . .” I trail off, not sure how to put my thoughts into words.
“An issue. That’s what it’s been and don’t deny it. Jack seemed like the perfect catch. I was even rooting for him, but one little mention of his name on national television and he scurried away. And then Beck, my main humping man slips into our lives, and good Christ, was he ravenous—”
“And that’s all he was. He didn’t even give me a glimpse into his dark past, just the tip of the iceberg. Even when I asked for more.”
“But the oral, that was good.”
Sigh. It was. It was so damn good. And a little part of me wonders what it would have felt like if we went all the way. Would it have been unbelievable? Mind-blowing?
Maybe, but I’ve never been a sex for the hell of it kind of girl. There has always been emotion involved with my sexual encounters, and I wonder if going all the way would have left me feeling empty rather than fulfilled.
“It was, but I want more than sex.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, you’re young and should be having flings with irresistible men. You know, be all Sex in the City. Be a Samantha.”
How do I put this without sounding ridiculous . . .
“Samantha isn’t my style. I’m more of a Charlotte. I hate being lonely, especially with our grueling schedule. You get to go home to Chad and your kids and have people love on you and hold you and take care of you. You have a partnership, an ever-lasting friendship, someone to hold your hand when you’re nervous or scared, or want to be cuddled.” Taking a long pull from my straw, I swallow. “I don’t want to be single. I’ve never enjoyed it; I don’t have that type of personality in my blood. So, yes, I’ll go back. I will look for another date, and who knows, third time might be the charm.”
Dylan studies me, her chin propped up by her palm. “The Suit and The Rebel. Who will be next?”
I shrug, feeling nervous about another blind date. “Who knows, maybe it will be the nerd.”
“Or the construction worker.”
“Or the cop.” I point at her.
“Or the single dad.”
“Don’t forget the Navy SEAL.”
“Ah,” Dylan sighs. “Any military man. We could be totally off. You might get the theater geek.”
I tap my chin with my index finger. “Hmm, the theater geek. I could totally go for that. Maybe he was in Hamilton.”
“Shooting for the stars, are we?”
“If I was shooting for the stars, I would have said someone like Chris Hemsworth.”
Dylan stares at the ceiling, a sparkle in her eye. “If Chris Hemsworth is signed up on Going in Blind, I’m going to personally ask Chad to make me a profile, hoping he doesn’t mind a little brother husband situation.”
“For Chris, I’m sure Chad would jump on board.”
***
“Any matches yet?” my sister-in-law asks while looking over my shoulder. I’m flopped on her couch, Chloe is decorating my legs with the Paw Patrol stickers I bought her, and Alex is watching a National Geographic show about elephants and their diminishing herds.
“Uh, let me check.”
It’s been two days since I put in a request for another date. With Beck, I didn’t
even have to put in a request; it just appeared, which makes me nervous now because what if there are no more matches out there for me? The app and restaurant are still new, so what if I barreled through my only two matches? What if there’s a limit?
Is there a limit? Do I look like a serial dater according to the system? I know they specifically said this is not a hookup app. I really hope they don’t think I’m doing this just for a hookup. Surely there are other people in the same boat as me. Hell, Danny at the bar said I wasn’t the only one on a second or even third date.
Squinting, afraid there will be no matches, I carefully open the app and pray to the dating gods that there is someone else out there for me.
Dramatic, I know. But I’m feeling pretty low after the first two dates.
“You have a match.”
Thank you, dating gods.
“Looks like I have a match.” Again.
“Really?” Lauren asks, scooting in closer so she can take a look as well. “Who is it? What’s his handle? What does it say about him? Did he message you?”
“No message, no name, remember? But it looks like his handle is . . .” I start giggling.
“What is it? Is it something stupid like CallMeDaddy? Or BlowiesRock?”
“Or ManHands?” Alex chimes in, eyes still fixed on the TV.
“Man hands?” I mouth to Lauren who rolls her eyes, looking completely exasperated over her husband’s little addition.
“Why would man hands be bad?” I ask.
Alex flicks a few pieces of popcorn in his mouth. “Don’t know, just seemed like a weird name.”
“How about balloon butt? That’s funny,” Chloe chimes in.
I tickle her neck. “That would be funny. Should I call you balloon butt now?”
“Noooooooo. I’m Chlo-money.”
“You’re not Chlo-money.” Lauren makes that known real quick. “Your father is in big trouble for letting you watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”
“Hold on, repeat that.” I sit up a little taller, all thoughts of my match out the window when Lauren drops a bomb. “Alex, you watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians?”
No shame emitting from the popcorn-eating fiend, he says, “Ever hear of a guilty pleasure? That’s mine. Go ahead, ask Lauren what hers is; you will judge her even more.”