The Art of Kissing Frogs

by Shéa R. MacLeod

“My guess is he wants that divorce sooner rather than later. And he can’t file, so right now you hold all the cards.”

  “Except for that little matter of the Home Office,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, there’s that.” He mulled it over. “I know some people, so I’m going to find out more about this, all right? In the meantime, you need to get ready for your date.”

  Adam. How could I have forgotten?

  “I don’t know. Maybe I should cancel.” I felt like shit, and I looked even worse.

  “You do that, and I shall disown you.”

  That made me laugh. “Okay, fine. Get out of here so I can get dressed.”

  “I’ll go make us a cuppa. As soon as you’re done, give me a shout. I’m in charge of hair and makeup.” He winked at me before slipping out into the hall and shutting the door behind him.

  I WOULD LIKE TO SAY that by the time Kev got done with his primping duties, and I finished with my (heavily doctored with alcohol) cup of tea, I’d recovered. That would be a lie. I was still pretty much a hot mess. Only this time it was because I was about to go on a date—at least I thought it was a date—with Adam.

  We had agreed to meet in the West End, not far from the Palace Theatre. I got there a good fifteen minutes early and debated whether to sit or stand. Standing would show off my figure to best advantage. Kev had said so. It would make the tummy seem flatter and the boobs stick out better, or something like that. Sitting meant taking a load off my feet, which were starting to pinch a little in the new, sassy red shoes. Standing now meant hobbling later. I went with sitting.

  I fidgeted a bit, trying to remember to sit up straight, roll back the shoulders, and suck in the stomach. Not exactly easy to do when you’re sitting down. I twitched the hem of my blue dress this way and that, trying to get it to lie perfectly so as to show off the right amount of leg, and touched my necklace for the one hundredth time to make sure the beads were lying perfectly flat. Frankly, I was a nervous wreck.

  And then I saw him, moving through the crowd. He cut through the hordes of tourists as if he expected them to just step out of his way, which they did. I drank up the vision of him and that long, loose-limbed stride. A faint breeze toyed with his hair, sending a single blond curl spilling over his forehead. I swear I sighed liked a freaking schoolgirl over her celebrity crush.

  I had to remind myself Adam wasn’t a celebrity. He was a normal guy, albeit an insanely hot one, and whatever the reason, he wanted to take me, Kate Miller, to dinner. Maybe Hell had finally frozen over.

  I stood as he approached, and the butterflies in my stomach went from ballet to full-out cage fight. I’m pretty sure my knuckles turned white, I was gripping the straps of my handbag so tight.

  “Kate.” It rolled off his tongue as he caressed it like it was the most beautiful name in the whole wide universe. “It’s so lovely to see you.” Then he leaned forward and kissed me, first on the left cheek and then on the right. His lips lingered a little longer than a friendly greeting warranted, and he stroked gently, seductively, from my shoulder to my hip, resting there his hand there for a moment. Heat seared me wherever he touched, and I sucked in a breath, trying not to go all stupid and wobbly right there in front of God and half of the United Kingdom.

  “Hi, Adam.” It was barely a squeak. Not quite like the sexiness I’d planned. I couldn’t take my eyes off his face.

  He smiled at me, that wide generous smile that made his green eyes sparkle and my heart flutter. “Are you hungry?”

  “I could eat a horse.” It spilled out of my mouth before I could stop it. I wanted to die, but Adam only chuckled.

  “Come on then. I made a reservation for us. I hope you like French.”

  “Love it.”

  He held out his arm gallantly. Eat your heart out, Mr. Darcy. I slipped my hand into the crook of his arm, suddenly feeling like the belle of the ball as he laid his other hand over mine, stroking the back of it gently with his thumb. His skin was warm, and I was feeling a little flushed all of a sudden.

  “How was work?” he asked as we strolled along the busy sidewalk, humanity swarming around us.

  Work? Did I work? “Fine. Yeah, it was fine.” I struggled to think of something intelligent to say. I was so damn nervous. “You know, the usual crises one finds in a small office.”

  “Like what?” He seemed genuinely interested.

  “Um, like my boss forgetting she has to be in Vienna next Wednesday for an important meeting and she hadn’t asked me to book flights or anything. Like the internet going down as I’m booking those flights because the idiot in accounting didn’t pay the bill when he was supposed to. Like one of my colleagues freaking out because he wanted a king bed in his hotel room in Malta, but the hotel gave him a double. The usual.”

  “You’re a travel agent?”

  “No. I’m in administration for a small energy company. Booking travel for my boss and colleagues is just one of the many hats I wear.”

  “Sounds exciting.”

  I laughed. “It certainly has its moments. How about you? How was your day? I don’t think you ever said what you do.”

  He gave me a funny look. “I—ah—work at the theater.”

  “Oh, wow, really? I’ve always loved the theater. I think it must be really interesting to be one of the backstage people who makes all the magic happen. Is that what you do?”

  “Make the magic happen? Yes. Something like that.” He was still giving me a funny look.

  I couldn’t quite interpret it. Had I said something stupid? “What?”

  He shook his head slightly, as though startled from a reverie. “Uh, nothing. You just have an eyelash.” He brushed his finger gently along my cheekbone. “There. Gone.”

  “Thank you.” I somehow didn’t think the look he’d given me had been anything to do with an eyelash but decided to let it pass. I didn’t want to sound like a nosey nag. “So how was work today? I bet theater work is pretty exciting, huh?”

  He grinned. “It is. We had a show this evening. That’s why I asked you to meet me down here.”

  “That’s so cool. Which show?”

  “The Winter’s Tale. It’s a bit of an obscure play.”

  “Shakespeare.”

  He shot me a startled look. “You’ve heard of hit?”

  I laughed. “I know. I have to admit, I’m kind of a geek,” I said. “I love reading Shakespeare’s plays.”

  That seemed to surprise him. “Really?”

  For the next few minutes, we chatted about Shakespeare and plays in general before coming to a stop in front of a small restaurant tucked away on a back street. “This is it.”

  It didn’t look like much. The façade was painted brown, and there was no sign above the door. Just an A-frame sitting in the middle of the pavement with menu items written on it with chalk. “Great,” I chirped brightly, giving him a wide smile. I was a little worried. After my previous experiences with cheap-ass dates, this didn’t bode well. I reminded myself he worked in a theater and probably didn’t make much. All I could do was hope the food was edible.

  Adam opened the door and ushered me inside. I came to a halt, surprised. Instead of a restaurant, there was a set of stairs leading down. “Um, are you sure this is the right place?”

  “Definitely. I know it looks a bit dodgy, but trust me. The food here is excellent.”

  “All right.” Nervously, I started down the steps.

  Mr. Nice Guy

  MR. NICE GUY WAS FORTY-four, which I felt was a bit old for me, but I was still on my pre-Adam “be open-minded and try new things” kick. Age is just a number, right?

  He told me he was in the film industry, had worked on dozens of movies, and knew a lot of famous people. Not sure if he was trying to impress me or what, but throughout the evening, he kept dropping names. Names I guessed I was supposed to know. Being still somewhat new to the UK at the time, I had no idea who he was talking about, so I smiled and nodded and pretended I was impressed instead of confuse
d. Even if they’d been familiar names, I wouldn’t have cared. I’ve never been one of those celebrity junkies who goes gaga over a half-naked picture of the flavor of the week. Okay, granted, knowing Vin Diesel would have impressed me, but only if Mr. Nice Guy had taken me to meet Vin Diesel. Yep, that would have impressed the hell out of me.

  The date went well. We had Italian and a couple bottles of decent rosé, and all was well with the world. There was much laughing and talking, and he was a really nice guy. And while it was very pleasant to be out with an agreeable gentleman after my recent rash of dating disasters, I just didn't feel it. No sparks. No sizzle. No attraction.

  It's not like I expected the earth to move, but I figured I should at least be able to imagine kissing the guy. I tried, I did. But, um, no. Hell no. I’d rather kiss an actual frog, which did not bode well for future dates.

  So we parted ways and on good terms with me thanking him for dinner and a lovely evening. Nothing was said about going out again, which was fine by me. In fact, I breathed a little easier after that.

  A few days later, while Chloe and I were watching a Jane Austen movie, I received a message from Mr. Nice Guy telling me how fabulous I was (naturally) and would I like to do it again sometime. I liked Mr. Nice Guy as a person well enough, but as dating material? No, thank you. And I was pretty sure he wasn’t looking for just a friend. So I told Mr. Nice Guy that while I’d enjoyed meeting him and thought he was a lovely person, I didn't think we were a match. I told him I hoped he wasn't offended, and I wished him well in his search. And that was the end of it. Or so I thought.

  A couple minutes later, I got another message from Mr. Nice Guy telling me of course he wasn't offended, just disappointed. And he continued with: "Just a tip. When a guy treats you to dinner, you should say 'thank you'."

  I stared at the screen of my phone, baffled. Then I handed it to Chloe. “Does that say what I think it says?”

  Chloe paused the movie before taking the phone from me. She frowned as she read the text, and then her face flushed in outrage. “Are you kidding me?”

  “I did thank him,” I said a little defensively.

  “Of course you did. Your mother practically drilled manners into you from birth. I just can’t believe the unmitigated gall of the man.”

  “Right? In fact, after I said it, he said ‘my pleasure’ and then tried to kiss me. What am I supposed to do? Bow and scrape and kiss his feet?” I made a face.

  “What a jackass.” She was really in a huff if she was using that kind of language. “He’s a big fat jerk who’s had his pride pricked. You didn't ask for any tips or a critique of the date or your behavior. Talk about rude and passive-aggressive. He’s just pissed off you won’t go out with him again. He is not a nice guy. He’s one of those self-proclaimed "nice guys" who is really a total ass, and you’re well rid of him.”

  I don’t know if Chloe felt any better after her rant, but I sure did. “Thanks, girl. I needed that.”

  She shook her head and handed me back my phone before pressing play on the remote. Colin Firth strode manfully across the grass and dove head-first into a pond. “And ‘nice guys’ always wonder why they can't get a girl.”

  Chapter 8

  AT THE BOTTOM OF THE stairs I stopped, surprised. The restaurant was nothing like I expected. Yes, it was the size of a postage stamp, but it was like stepping into a Parisian café. The mellow, gold plaster walls were covered in vintage French advertising posters. The floor was black and white checkerboard, and the tiny tables were draped in perfectly pressed white linen. In the precise center of each table was a red glass votive, a flame dancing inside. Overhead, a small, black crystal chandelier sparkled. Couples leaned close, their voices a low murmur. The lighting was low, the tunes bluesy jazz with a French twist, and the only waiter wore a simple white shirt and black trousers with a long black apron tied around his waist.

  Adam gave his name to the waiter, who sketched a slight bow before quickly showing us to a table in the back corner away from the kitchen. The waiter started to pull my chair out for me, but Adam waved him aside and seated me himself before taking his own seat. It was an unusual experience for me, being treated with such gallantry, but I loved it.

  The candle on the table highlighted Adam’s perfectly sculpted cheekbones and turned his eyes dark and mysterious. And then he gave me his wide sunny smile, complete with flashing dimples, and he went from darkly gorgeous to downright beautiful.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” he said, and I could tell he meant every word. He was genuinely glad to be with me.

  “Me, too.” I still couldn’t quite believe this gorgeous man had wanted to take me on a date. It was surreal. “This place is amazing. I had no idea it was even here.”

  His smile widened. “Not many people do. They like it that way. Every night the menu changes, as does the wine. You never know what sort of culinary adventure you’ll find.”

  The waiter appeared and whipped out a bottle of red wine with a dramatic flourish. He showed it to both of us and then raised a brow as if to ask our approval. Other than the fact it was a merlot, which it said clearly on the label, I had no idea, so I gave Adam a helpless look. He smiled back and gave the waiter the go ahead.

  With a great deal of drama, the cork was removed and passed around for sniffing. Frankly, it smelled like red wine to me. The waiter scooped Adam’s glass off the table and poured a small amount, then did the same for me. Then he waited while we did more smelling and sipping.

  “Do you like it?” Adam asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” I didn’t know what else to say. It tasted like red wine. Smooth and fruity and whatever else red wine is supposed to taste like. At Adam’s nod, the waiter efficiently filled our glasses and then left the bottle on the table before disappearing into the kitchen. I couldn’t hold back a slight giggle.

  “It’s all rather pretentious, isn’t it?” Adam grinned.

  “Maybe. But it’s kind of fun,” I admitted. “Even if I haven’t the first clue about wines. Other than that special they had on the Beeb a couple months ago.”

  “They had a wine special on BBC?”

  “Wine Tasting 101, it was called. Fascinating stuff, but it went in one ear and right out the other,” I admitted.

  “If you want to know the truth,” he said, leaning in as if about to impart a deep, dark secret, “I don’t know much about it either. I figure if it tastes good, it’s worth drinking. I play along so they don’t feel bad.”

  That made me laugh. He watched me as if he enjoyed the view. I felt myself flushing and repressed a tiny thrill.

  The waiter reappeared, two small plates in his hands. “Tartelettes aux artichauts,” he said, placing a plate in front of each of us before vanishing again.

  On the small white plate sat a single mini-tart about as big around as a silver dollar with a sprig of some kind of greenery beside it. Normally I’d just pick the damn thing up and pop it in my mouth, but I was pretty sure a place like this required better manners.

  Adam picked up his knife and fork and stared at the tiny tart. Then he put down his silverware and picked up the tart with his fingers. With a mischievous look, he popped the whole thing into his mouth.

  I couldn’t help the giggle that escaped as I followed suit. We looked like a couple of chipmunks sitting there munching on those little tarts. The waiter gave us a horrified look as he passed by the table, but we smiled and kept munching. I had no idea what kind of tarts they were, but they were tasty.

  “Oh, good, you like artichokes,” Adam said when his mouth was finally empty.

  “Is that what they were? Delicious. Although,” I said, tilting my nose up slightly and putting on a truly horrific, fake British upper crust accent, “I’m not certain I would have paired a merlot with them.”

  Adam sputtered with laughter, drawing another frown from the waiter. “We’re going to get thrown out if we’re not careful,” he said, topping off our wine glasses. The thought of getting kicked o
ut didn’t seem to bother him.

  “Perish the thought.” I hid my smile behind my wine glass as he burst into laughter again.

  The waiter appeared once more, a disapproving look on his face and large white bowls in his hands. He thunked them down unceremoniously before stomping off again. The scent that wafted from the bowls was boozy and heavenly. I glanced at Adam.

  “Boeuf bourgogne. Beef burgundy. Lots of booze, lots of beef, easy on the veg.”

  “Smells delicious,” I said as I dug in. It was beyond delicious. I barely refrained from moaning aloud. Each bite of beef was so tender, it melted in my mouth. The sauce was rich and redolent with wine and rosemary. The button mushrooms and tiny pearl onions held just a hint of butter. If I could have dreamed a perfect dish, this would have been it.

  During dinner we talked about the usual date things: our families, education history, travel bucket lists, favorite foods. At one point I told him the story of my brothers and their pet goats. “One day,” I said, gesturing with my fork, “we hear this yelling and look out the window. There’s the goat running hellbent for leather across the pasture while my brother hangs onto its horns with both hands for dear life, flying like a flag behind it.”

  Adam burst into laughter, and I joined him. It had been funny, and the memory was just as good.

  “Your brothers sound highly entertaining.”

  “They have their moments.” I smiled. “This one time...” I gestured with my fork again, only this time it came into contact with my wine glass, sending it toppling onto the table. Luckily it didn’t break, but red wine went everywhere, including my date’s lap.

  “Oh, shit,” I gasped. “I’m so sorry. Oh, my god, I’m such a klutz.” I started to get out of my chair, napkin in hand, not sure what to do.

  “It’s all right, Kate. Don’t worry about it.” Adam was dabbing at his trousers, a rueful smile on his face. “They’re black. They can take a soaking. Although the tablecloth may never be the same.”