The Blind Date

by Landish, Lauren

  “You said who you date is none of River’s business. So why do they need to find out right away?” I ask. “We can always tell them later if things get serious.”

  The opposite implication hangs heavily in the air—if this blows up, we’ll both pretend it never happened and never breathe a word about it to River and Arielle. But Riley considers it, and I feel my heart lighten as she nods shallowly. “I . . . Noah, I need to think about this.”

  “Then think,” I tell her, stroking her hand with my thumb. “But in the meantime, I should go. Today’s been one hell of a day, and we both need to process everything.”

  Riley nods robotically but walks me to her door. When she reaches for the knob, I say her name quietly. “Riley.”

  She looks up at me, and I reach out, cupping the back of her head. She doesn’t resist me. Instead, she takes a half-step forward, standing on her tiptoes as I slowly lower my head to hers, giving her every chance to stop me. But she doesn’t, and our lips meet. It’s sweet and hot and everything I’ve ever dreamed of in a first kiss. I pull her in a little tighter, and she whimpers, falling into me. Her hands grasp at my chest, pulling at me as she opens up to me.

  I could push her against the door, pin her body with mine and touch her. I could take her into my arms and carry her to her bedroom, strip her clothes off, and have a night of such intense physical passion that my balls would be drained for a month.

  But I don’t want a night. I don’t want to drain my cock and be done with her. That isn’t why I answered her on BlindDate.

  I want more.

  I deepen the kiss, chasing her tongue with mine and burning my name—Noah—into her mouth, wanting to make sure she knows exactly who’s kissing her. And that I’m the same man who’s been messaging with her.

  Me. Noah Mark Daniels.

  I’m Riley’s ninety-six percent match. But I find that I don’t even care about the statistics and algorithms anymore. I can feel it, deep in my spirit or soul or whatever it is inside you that tells you that you’ve found someone special. Someone to hold on to.

  And I’m not a man who believes in all that mumbo-jumbo soulmate stuff. A week ago, I would’ve laughed and called it a marketing ploy we could capitalize on for BlindDate. But now, all I know is that I can’t imagine not waking up tomorrow and texting Riley good morning first thing, not hearing about her day, not kissing her lips again.

  “Think about that too,” I whisper when our lips part. “Because I want to give you this feeling every fucking day. Goodnight, Riley.”

  Riley sighs dreamily, and I slide out her door before Raffy can follow me. I keep it together driving home, but by the time my door’s closed, I can’t take it any longer. My brain whirls with the taste of Riley on my lips, the soft natural scent of her skin, the way her shorts clung to her hips. Even the way her oversized T-shirt hinted at the luscious curves underneath without revealing all, letting me feel them when I pulled her to me and her soft breasts pressed against me. Fuck, that was sexy as hell.

  I collapse onto the sofa, practically tearing my jeans open as I pull my cock out. Guiltily, I pull up Riley’s Instagram, finding that picture I love the most, her doing almost a Marilyn Monroe like pose on the edge of a fountain. Her right calf is turned in such a way that it looks exactly like the Riley I saw tonight, and I get even harder.

  “Oh, yes, Noah,” she whimpers as her thighs fall open and she presents herself to me. I press the head of my cock against her wetness, and we moan in tandem as her warm, slick tightness envelops me.

  There’s an instant as her hips touch mine that she gasps, stretched to her limits, but it’s a sexy sound that has her wrapping her legs around my waist.

  “Fuck me, Noah,” she begs as I trap her underneath me, my arms caging her pretty face. “Make me yours.”

  My hips rise and fall on their own, a thousand sensations pulsing through me with each stroke as she meets me. In her soft whispers, her fingernails on my shoulders, the way she clenches around me, she encourages me to go harder, faster, deeper.

  Without saying it, she tells me that I can be totally open with her. That I can find not just rest but strength and acceptance.

  That she’ll be the sunshine to my darkness.

  “Riley!” I grunt, my eyes rolling up as my cock jerks in my fist, thick ropes of cum spurting up onto my abs.

  “Damn,” I gasp. I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time, and based on the throbbing sensation in my cock, it’s a little surprised too.

  Still panting, I notice that I’m not softening. It’s not a totally unfamiliar sensation, but I have to be horny as fuck for it to happen.

  Riley has done that to me.

  “Might as well do round two in the shower. Best way to avoid chapped dick . . . that’s no good for anyone.”

  I don’t admit, even to the empty room, that I want to be sure I’m in tip-top shape in case Riley makes a decision sooner rather than later.

  Are you assuming she’s going to say yes to dating you? my inner voice asks.

  Absolutely, I tell myself. No other option is acceptable. I hope.

  Chapter 9

  Riley

  “Ooh, someone’s got new toys!” Hazel calls out, nudging the woman next to her excitedly. There’s a whole table full of women in the dining room at the senior center, all waiting for me. Or at least the goodies I’ve brought. And it’s an armload.

  It’s another benefit of my deal with Joroast—they send me more products than I could ever possibly use, and I get to share the wealth. I always pick out my favorites and do videos or photos with them, adding in the appropriate hashtags and highlighting all the fabulous features of the new packaging or gorgeous colors. But not every product works for every person, and those are the ones I’ve brought today.

  I set down the bags, the bottles making a loud clunk on the table. Peering in the first bag to make sure nothing spilled, I grin excitedly, looking back and forth from the goodies to the ladies. “You ladies are in for a treat today! I’ve got cleansers, treatments, and makeup galore. I don’t know if you’re ready for all this,” I tease.

  “We’d better be,” Hazel says. “If we’re not, we’ll probably die before it happens, so let’s get to it.”

  My smile fades a bit. I don’t like to think about these people, who’ve all become my friends, dying and not being here for one of our ‘Get Fancy’ days. Hazel notices and pats my hand.

  “Don’t you worry that pretty little head about a thing, dear. We’re all fine and well aware of the passage of time. Like now, for example. We need to get this show on the road or we won’t be done in time for dinner. I’ve got my eyes on a fella and want to look a little extra fancy, if you know what I mean?” She gives me a wink, one penciled-in eyebrow dipping saucily with the movement. “Do you have any more of that red lipstick from last month? The one Mildred said made us look like whores walking the street? I think I need some of that today.” She shimmies her shoulders, and I blink in surprise. And confusion. Hazel is a sweet, kind grandmother of ten who mostly misses baking cookies for her family. And apparently looking like a streetwalker with Kim Kardashian-like lips.

  I look to Arielle, but she’s doing her best to hold back giggles. She offers me a shrug of ‘Whatcha gonna do’ before she goes back to straightening up the hair station’s curling irons, hair spray, and curl creams. I once brought a straightener for them to try out, but the ladies all like their hair curled and sprayed to within an inch of its life with mass quantities of Aqua Net that turn their hair into crunchy helmets. They’d be walking, talking tiki torches if someone got too close with a lit cigarette. But I guess that’s how they did it in their younger days, and that’s what makes them feel beautiful, which is what I’m here to do.

  “I want to do up my eyes today,” Mabel, one of the other ladies, says. “Do you have any of that eye cream again, Riley, darling?”

  “Of course,” I tell her as I start to unload everything, laying it on the table like a big buf
fet of colorful candy. Or eye candy, at least. “Let’s have fun, ladies!”

  Arielle helps some of the residents who are a little more shy or not as dexterous anymore, and I hang back, answering questions and making recommendations when needed.

  “Here’s your lipstick, Hazel,” I say, handing her the tube ironically labeled Hot Harlot. “And your eye cream, Mabel.” Thankfully, it’s called Hydration Station and not anything too risqué, considering it’s a thick, white cream.

  Oh, my goodness! What is wrong with me?

  That kiss is what’s wrong with you!

  I touch my lips, which still burn from Noah’s kiss. I’ve never been kissed like that. Like he wanted to possess me, own me, or maybe like he already does but is willing to give me a moment to realize it. The bad thing is . . . I already know it too well. But that doesn’t mean anything.

  No matter how great the conversations have been.

  No matter the connection I felt when we talked about everything and nothing.

  No matter the fireworks shooting through my body when he kissed me and made me realize that maybe I’ve never been properly kissed.

  Because he’s River’s best friend. And Arielle’s brother. And Noah Daniels.

  I sigh, stepping back to let the ladies play with all the makeup. They’re giddy and excited, showing the small palettes to each other and complimenting one another’s attempts at eye shadow combinations.

  Arielle notices, telling Bertha, “Keep going with the teasing, and I’ll be back to help with the hair spray in the back, m’kay?” Bertha does as instructed, expertly teasing her hair into a huge bouffant reminiscent of the sixties.

  Coming over to stand next me, Arielle bumps my shoulder. “Hey, girlie, don’t look so freaked. Hazel’s kidding about the whole . . .” She draws her thumb across her neck, closing her eyes and lolling her tongue out. “These women are tough as nails, living through world wars, outliving their husbands, and look.” She points around the room. “Still kicking and cackling.” On cue, Hazel puckers her now ultra-red lips at Mildred, who scowls. Several women crack up in response, and I can’t help but smile . . . a little.

  “It’s not that,” I say aimlessly.

  “What’s wrong then?”

  I kissed your brother!

  “Uhm . . . nothing,” I reply, blinking. “Sorry. Just stuff on the brain.” I swirl my hand around my temple like there’s a whirlwind of tumbleweeds tangling up in my brain, mostly so that I don’t unconsciously touch my lips again.

  “Work stuff? Or did Ninety-Six Percent keep you up late last night?” Arielle prods with a smile.

  “What?” I say too quickly. I must look guilty as hell. I’ve never been one to hide my emotions, but the fates must be shining on me today, or the deal I’m considering making with the Devil is already taking effect, because Arielle misreads my expression.

  “Shit, did he already turn into a toad? Damn it, I thought that had a good shot. I’m sorry, Riley. Maybe you’ll meet someone tonight?”

  It takes me a full thirty seconds to realize that she’s put one and one together and decided that my messaging with Mark has already ended poorly. And tonight?

  Oh, yeah, The Crew’s outing.

  “Maybe,” I say without committing to anything. “It should be fun, at least.”

  “Hell yeah, it will be.”

  Arielle and I fall into a comfortable silence, and I think about The Crew. Most of us left our jobs at the mall, but we still try to get together frequently. Sometimes, that’s monthly. Other times, it might be several months before we see each other. It all depends on everyone’s schedules now that we’re grown and in different places in our lives.

  But tonight’s important . . . so we’re going to make the time.

  “I can’t wait,” I assure her. “Oh, looks like Bertha’s ready for you to spray her hair.”

  Arielle’s eyes cut to Bertha, and she snaps sharply, “Don’t you dare try to reach back there to spray, woman. You and I both know your shoulder does not do that anymore, and Dr. Mehendle will kill us both if he has to replace that joint again.” Arielle softens the truth with a smile, but she’s not kidding around. She takes care of her patients, protecting them from themselves when necessary.

  With Arielle helping Bertha, I get back to work helping the other ladies—fetching a color or cream they’d like to try or helping with application if their hands are shaky or their eyesight is poor.

  “I haven’t worn this much shadow since I tried to look like Brigitte Nielsen in the 80s!” Mabel cackles as she finishes her eyes. “Too bad I’m six inches too short!”

  “Yeah, the six inches is the problem, not the sixty years,” Hazel deadpans. “I bet Riley could do the look! We’d have to cut that hair, though. And that would be a spit-fire crime!”

  I know the look they’re talking about and play along, twisting my blonde curls up and holding them on the back of my head out of sight. I hollow my cheeks and do my best don’t-mess-with-me RBF. “Oh, come on,” I joke. “I could pull it off. I’d just need one of those suits she rocked the hell out of. What do you think?” I intone coldly.

  It doesn’t work in the slightest, and they all laugh at my piss-poor attempt to be stone-faced and frigid. “Riley, dear, that’s just not your strong suit,” Hazel says kindly.

  “And how do you know those moldy oldies?” Mabel asks before waving an arthritic finger.

  “Because they’re classics!” Viktor interrupts, coming over with his cane. “Beautiful women, men being men without a single bit of shame . . . about the only thing better was Predator. ‘Get to da choppa!’ ”

  “Viktor, the only chopper you’re getting to is the Life Flight to the hospital,” Hazel teases, and everyone laughs. I guess Viktor isn’t the beau whose eye she wants to catch.

  But Viktor chuckles good-naturedly and gives Hazel a sparkle-eyed look of approval at the zinger.

  Wait. Are they . . . flirting? They might be. And the fact that I’m not sure is probably why I need an app to find a date and why even with some magical compatibility calculations, I end up with someone who is so obviously not right for me.

  He felt right. He felt very right.

  “What brings you over? Would you like Arielle to shellac those wisps on top of your head?”

  “Can’t a man just be drawn to beauty?” Viktor replies, mock hurt. He holds his hand over his heart like Hazel’s barb pains him. If he keeps doing that, no one is going to believe him if he has an actual heart attack. He’ll be the boy who cried wolf . . . or the man who cried heart attack, at least. “Why, Mabel looks just like a princess.” He turns his gaze from Hazel to take Mabel’s hand, laying a dry kiss to the back of it and telling her, “May you kiss a frog, dear princess, and I’d bet he’d turn right into Prince Charming for you!”

  Viktor ribbits, and everyone laughs, Mabel blushing a little. “Viktor, you old flatterer. And you’re no frog. You look quite handsome today.”

  “Those pool exercise sessions must be helping,” Viktor says, flexing a skinny, wrinkled arm with no shame. In fact, he leans his cane up against the table and squeezes his own bicep. “Rock hard and ready, I am,” he asserts, though he grabs his cane back pretty quickly.

  “Viktor, about the only way you’ll be rock hard is if you get another Viagra,” Arielle warns, “which I’m still on the lookout for!” She points a threatening finger his way, but he throws back a charming smile, first to Arielle and then to all the ladies around the table who are watching him with rapt attention.

  “That one’s a little sour about the ‘no fraternizing with patients’ rule. Thinks if she can’t have me, no one can. But what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right, ladies?” His grin is full of devilry and delight at poking at Arielle while charming the table full of women. “But for now, the patio’s calling me. The sun’s great for my gout. Which of you ladies would like to join me in getting a little Vitamin D?”

  No one stands, and he shrugs. “Can’t blame an old man f
or trying. You know where to find me if any of you change your mind.”

  With that, he shuffles off slowly, whistling a tune.

  I shake my head, chuckling lightly. “He is something else.”

  “Pish posh,” Hazel says, waving her hand at me. “You and Arielle here would be pretty lucky to get yourselves a good man like Viktor.”

  “A good man?” Arielle asks incredulously. “Viktor’s a scoundrel who’s only interested in trying to get in your granny panties!”

  “Oh, he puts up a good front like that,” Hazel retorts with a knowing nod, “but we know the type, young lady. Underneath that scruffy surface is a heart of gold.”

  “And besides, if he’s only in it for the sex, what’s the problem?” Mabel adds. “Honey, sometimes a little touching and petting’s all I need. I’m an old woman. I don’t want to play nurse to anyone or pick up dirty socks. I did that for fifty years with my Roger, and I loved every single day of it. And yes, when I found his last dirty sock on the floor, I cried my eyes out over it. But after he was gone and I moved in here, I’ll be honest in saying picking up his dirty drawers is one of the things I miss least. Now, if I want to have a little happiness, I’m durn well going to do it.”

  Viktor calls back, “Mabel, I am fortunate beyond measure to provide you with a little happiness. The good Lord knows you give it right back.” Apparently, he didn’t make it all the way to patio and is instead sitting on his handy-dandy stool about ten yards away, eavesdropping.

  “I think I’ll add an STD screening to everyone’s next physical,” Arielle muses aloud.

  Viktor blows Mabel a kiss with his knobby hand, and if Hazel wasn’t swooning like Viktor is talking to her too, it might be romantic. But I guess it works for them. What do I know? Obviously, nothing about love, judging by my failure.

  “You two young ’uns will learn one day,” Viktor says. “We’ve all had the great loves of our lives, but there’s no joy in being lonely until we see them again. You gotta take what life gives you—sometimes it’s sugar, sometimes it’s salt. They might look the same, but they feel different and light up different parts of your tongue. Your heart, too.”