She’s got a valid point about the condiments, but I’m stuck on if she meant to say “comfortable” for her sweatpants. But I’m too afraid to ask.
“Well, I think you look pretty,” Austin says, draping an arm on my shoulder and giving it a surreptitious squeeze. “Have you tried the cake?”
She doesn’t deserve cake. But I tuck my tears behind my eyelids while he woos her with baking tips and banishes me from the kitchen. Granny always says if you can’t stand the heat, get out of the fire. So, I do. Of course, I jump right into another one because I apparently like getting burned.
“Need some help?” I ask Ryan.
His brow furrows as he restocks T-shirts. “What about your stuff?”
“My friends fired me because I’m too sensitive.”
He chuckles. “That’s why I found an outlet besides art to release my stress.”
A vision of Ryan, head thrown back as he pleasures himself, blinds me as I fold a T-shirt with Let It Gogh printed on a Starry Night background. “What’s your outlet?”
“Throwing axes.”
When did my mind become so dirty?
“That seems a bit harsh.”
“Not at people. Throwing at a target.”
A bearded lumberjack-nerd-artist. The perfect man exists. There must be something wrong with him that I’m missing.
“Sounds very cool.”
“There’s a spot near here. Maybe we could hit it before we open tomorrow.” I swear his voice drops. “You’ll be nice and relaxed.”
“Okay,” I say, mesmerized by everything about him.
“Okay,” says Austin, whom I did not realize had sauntered over to grab a bag.
Ryan’s called away by a customer and I finish straightening his shirt display while Austin and Charlotte kindly run the booth and sell my pottery. Wait, what? I do a double take. People are actually buying my pottery? I’d be more flustered about it, except I’m putting all my energy in being flustered about Ryan. It’s a healthy distraction from the mean people.
I wonder if he’s noticed I’m inked up? Tomorrow, I’ll remove my sweater so he sees my line. It’s exciting to be the bad girl.
During a lull, I corner my friends while Ryan chats with a customer.
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“I think he’ll be a perfect date for the mountain wedding,” Charlotte says with bright eyes.
“Yes,” I say. “We’ll manifest the wedding of your dreams through Ryan.”
Austin shrugs, but remains silent.
“Oh, no. What’s wrong with him?” I knew it. Austin seems to have an uncanny ability to see what I can’t and a ball of dread rolls in my stomach as I wait for his answer.
“Nothing. I can’t see anything wrong with him.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Huh. Maybe my universe guide feels sorry for me after everything I’ve been through. Have I finally met a guy who meets all the criteria? That thought makes me very happy. So why does Austin seem…almost sad?
“Aim, Chloe,” Ryan says. “You want to hit the bullseye. Like this.” His axe whizzes, slicing through the crisp morning air, and hits dead center with a thud. My lady parts cheer.
“Whoa,” I say. “That was amazing.”
Framed by a barrage of red and gold leaves, he’s breathtaking. I’m ready to beg him to chop down the happy little trees and build us a cabin to make sweet, bearded love in. And it’s only nine a.m.
“You can do it,” he says. “It’s not hard.”
That’s what she said dies on the tip of my tongue when Ryan steps behind me and places warm hands above my elbows. Shivers abound when his beard kisses my ear as he stoops a bit to instruct me. “Focus on the smallest circle. I painted that target, by the way.”
Oof. My limbs are Jell-O as his husky voice continues, “Scream if you need to. Grunt. Groan. Pull back and release the stress.”
He steps away, and my axe flies in a lopsided attempt and drops about five feet from the target.
“I may need to move closer,” I say.
“You may need a tiny knife instead of an axe,” Austin says.
Everyone is a comedian. Including Lucy, who, another big surprise, is an excellent axe thrower. An excellent axe thrower who has a little Swiss Army knife in her designer purse to offer me. Lovely.
“I need to tell you something,” Lucy whispers when Austin and Ryan walk away to adjust the target. “Don’t panic, okay?”
“Well, that’s the first thing I do when someone says not to, but okay.”
“What’s wrong?” Charlotte asks.
Lucy fingers the braids draped over her bosom. “I don’t like repeating gossip, so this doesn’t leave this field.” She worries her lip. “I feel like I have a gift of spotting chemistry, and I know you just met Ryan, but I can feel the attraction. Plus, Austin said you two were making ‘googly eyes’ at each other yesterday. So it’s my duty as your sort of mentor to tell you this.”
My God. She’s so good at suspense building. “Have you ever thought of writing thrillers?” I ask. “Cause I am dying to know what you’re going to tell me.”
“Really? No, but thank you. Maybe someday I will.”
“Okay, you might want to spill it before the guys come back,” Charlotte says.
“Okay, yes,” Lucy says. “I think I know Ryan. We did a campaign for his weed company and don’t take this the wrong way, but he might be too boring for even you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well…he’s a virgin.”
I laugh. And then laugh some more. Then stop. “But he’s got a beard.”
“I know, right? When Belinda told me, I literally said the same thing. That may be the only thing she ever said that didn’t put me to sleep. This was a few years ago, though, so maybe he finally got laid?”
“If he is a virgin, I think that’s a good thing,” Charlotte, ever optimistic, says. “You can mold him into what you want. Like sex clay.”
“Shh,” Lucy says. “Here they come.”
Is this a big deal, if he is? But how could he possibly be?
“One more round,” he says.
My friends circle through their turns until I’m up again.
The heavy handle feels weightless as I raise my arms and release with a “Screwwww thissss clown worrrrrld.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Ryan says as I hit the target. “You did it.”
Before I know what’s happening, he swoops me into his muscular arms and spins me around. He smells heavenly. Clean, woodsy…clay?
I slide down his hard body and land on shaky legs. “Better late than never,” I say. “Speaking of late, I guess we should get going.”
As we head to our cars, despite Lucy’s bombshell, I feel pumped for day two of the craft fair. His potential virginity isn’t my concern. Even if that’s all I think about as we reach the parking area. Beside his truck, the breeze plays with Ryan’s dark hair as he unbuttons his shirt.
“Like my shirt?” he asks. Beneath his blue and black flannel is a T-shirt that says... “Will you go out with me?”
The weight of everyone’s stare pins me to the spot. He reaches into the driver’s seat and holds up a choice of a Yes shirt or a No shirt. It’s the cutest thing ever.
“Turn around,” I say.
When he does, I put on the Yes shirt, but take the No shirt too. I, too, live for convenience.
Three
“Something to think about as you fall asleep… Did you know a face-recognition software determined the Mona Lisa is 83% happy, 9% disgusted, 6% fearful, and 2% angry?” Ryan texts me.
“Haha! I did not know that. Did you know that one theory for the smile on her face is that clowns were dancing to amuse her?” I send back.
“Clowns are creepy as fuck. On that note, sweet dreams.”
“Night. Sweet dreams to you.”
I smile at the phone. All week we’ve been texting useless history and ugh, why is whether he’
s a virgin so daunting to me?
The clay rock paperweight stares at me from my nightstand. Until Ryan, I never really grasped the symbolism and importance of the rock on the FriendsOfFriends site. It’s an accurate metaphor for the hardships we face seeking love.
A rock is permanent and aren’t we all searching for something that endures? I guess I kind of get now why Dune reveled in scaling mountains. Finding genuine love is a struggle, but we keep finding a way around the obstacles, hoping for success.
So, I guess I’ll ease up on the FriendsOfFriends marketing department. Especially since I’m about to make use of their site.
The internet experts have failed me, so I’m going straight to the people who are in the trenches like me. FriendsOfFriends has an advice tab where members can give you advice, so I type out my quandary—
Hi. I’ll just get right to it. I’ve met a guy who seems perfect for me in every way, and we have our first date tomorrow. There’s a possibility he’s a virgin.
What do I do? Is there etiquette about asking someone something so personal on the first date? Do I wait for him to tell me? This is anxiety inducing because I don’t want to ruin his first time. Not that I’m a bad lay, but what if I disappoint him? I don’t know if I can take the pressure.
Signed,
Anonymous
I press submit and settle back into the pillows on my bed. Within minutes, a notification pops up that I have a comment and I click on it.
Carl: Hop on his dick. The end.
Connie: Girl, run like Forrest. What if it doesn’t work out and then you’re the bad “first time” story for the rest of your life? Twenty years later, I tell anyone who will listen about Parker and his awful Cheeto fingers.
Dan: I think the obvious question here is why you’re asking us total strangers, instead of talking about it with him? And why is he still a virgin?
Laura: Fuck him. Literally.
This is a hot button topic it seems, and the opinionated comments continue to blow up my phone. And my panic. Why would he possibly be a virgin? There’re really only two possibilities that come to mind. Either he’s a level of religious that I can’t keep up with, or he’s a level of old-fashioned that I can really respect…for him. Not for me. My sexual awakening has only just begun to stretch. I can’t put my libido back to sleep now.
Dwight: I’m a virgin. You can practice on me and get over your fear.
Alison: Have you considered he may not want a second date, so this is all for naught?
Alison has an excellent point. But I’m a worrier, Alison, and you’ve just added another worry. Thanks. The comments keep coming.
Hank: Listen, here’s my advice…Dogecoin! To the moon!
Bliss: Message me, Dwight.
The satisfaction of matchmaking Bliss and Dwight and the hot crypto-tip have done nothing to solve my dilemma. If a gal can’t turn to the internet experts in her time of trouble, where can she turn? My MC romances always featured men of vast and sometimes even concerning experience. Unfortunately, I can’t seem to find any new romance books to download that fit all of my keywords—beard, lumberjack, virgin, artist, marijuana—but I sure do find a lot of images I may want to save for later.
I close the laptop and burrow under the covers. My phone lights up and it’s another text from Ryan. It’s a link to a song by Scarlet Letter. As I listen to the lyrics, about a chance encounter and all the possibilities the singer imagines before she walks away, my heart swoons. No guy has ever sent me a song, and it feels good for someone to woo me. No guy has ever wooed me before. And I like it. Even more than the beard.
Our official first date is lawn seats at a music festival in Central Park.
Central Park in Boulder is almost exactly like the Central Park you’re thinking of, if you shrank it down to the size of a postage stamp and plopped a far less ostentatious bandshell in it.
It’s better than good as we sit on a blanket away from the crowd, eating dinner. Ryan packed a picnic in a cute wicker basket. Turkey and cheese sandwiches, chips, and oatmeal pies for dessert. I’m not even freaking about the potential wedding dinner, because this is the swooniest, sweetest date ever, and I don’t care at all that everyone who sold at the Fall Thing got tickets for free in their vendor bag to the festival.
Nor do I care that the sandwiches Ryan made are far closer to my own haphazard, rather frugal foodstuffs than the Dagwood beauties Austin makes. I’ve hardly even developed a taste for French Brie when I could have orange slices that come from little wrappers. And Little Debbie is just a classic. Most of all, I don’t care if he’s a virgin. And really, I’m thinking way too far ahead instead of enjoying the moment.
Frankly, it’s kind of nice to be with a guy who’s also on a budget. And understands my random art references. He sometimes beats me to the punch and might actually know more about art history than I do, but that’s fine. I don’t need to be the trivia star. Though if we ever do a bar trivia night together, we’re definitely going to need someone who can answer the sports questions because between me and Ryan, we’d be fucked.
Look how emotionally healthy I am—I didn’t even spare a second to acknowledge that Austin would both appreciate my art history knowledge and know who went to the Super Bowl last year. I am truly changing.
Hopefully.
“So. Tell me about your pottery,” Ryan says, unwrapping my oatmeal pie like the woo-er he is. “Is Mae your middle name?”
It’s so refreshing to have someone interested in what I do and not merely because they want me to paint their balls. Not once does he seem bored by what I’m saying about my job at It’s Clay Time or my Mae’d With Love side gig. And not once do I get bored admiring the way his beard looks against his black sweater.
“Should we do the obligatory twenty questions to get to know each other?” Ryan asks.
“Yes,” I nearly scream. I can throw in the virgin thing and it won’t be awkward. “You go first.”
I stretch out on my side and prop my head in my hand.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.
“Hm. Going right for the deep stuff, huh?”
He grins. “Yep.”
“Alizarin Crimson. Yours?”
“Prussian Blue.”
“Oh, interesting,” I say.
“Why? You don’t like blue?”
“No, I do. Once, in art school, we did a little personality quiz based on your favorite color. Blues tend to be more emotional. And artistic. Also, charming and in tune with the universe.” Must be nice to be in tune with the universe. Maybe he’ll put in a kind word for me if I play my paint chips right.
“I’ll accept that answer. What does red say about you?”
Heat warms my face. “That I’m passionate. Loving and friendly.”
“Ah,” he says. “Your face is now your favorite color.”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” I tease.
“It’s cute. Almost innocent.”
Well, I’m definitely not the innocent one on this blanket. Obviously, I don’t say that.
“What’s your favorite holiday?” he asks.
“Halloween.”
“Not Christmas?”
“Nope. I love the whole vibe of Halloween. The chilly air and crunchy leaves smell. The spookiness.”
“Same,” he says. “Plus, I live for scary movie marathons.”
Is it weird to follow that up with, “When is the last time you had sex?” because I do.
Unfazed by my lack of manners, he says, “Two years ago.”
My mouth falls open, because relief and surprise can co-exist. “Really?”
“Yeah. People at work call me the virgin because I’m picky. I call it selective.” He pops a chip in his mouth and battles Austin for the most interesting man I’ve ever met. “Not to seem cocky, but if I wanted pussy, I could get it. I’m aware of the appeal of the beard.” He winks. “But I don’t want just pussy. I want a muse. Someone who inspires me.”
A mae
lstrom of things is happening inside my stomach. Things that can’t be described as mere butterflies in my belly. And it’s not gas. Thank heavens. It’s more like a swarm of eagles flapping their majestic wings over a mountain stream. It’s like Bob Ross himself painted a Cadmium Yellow heart right around us.
“What a fantastic answer,” I whisper.
We continue on with our questions while local bluegrass artists serenade us in the background. And then we settle into a comfortable silence, staring at each other. It’s almost too perfect.
“You have a very expressive face,” Ryan says. “Are you troubled about something? Is it the fact I prefer mustard on a hot dog?”
I laugh and sit up to scoot next to him. “No. I was just thinking... I’m really glad they messed up our booths.”
To think, I almost passed this man by because of gossip and my stupid hang-up. But I didn’t. I should commend myself. Good job, Chloe.
“I’m glad too.”
Ryan holds my hand as the sun sets behind Sanitas, painting the sky orange and dropping the temperature enough that Ryan repacks the picnic and drapes the blanket around us instead. The feeling that this is too good to be true won’t go away. Am I that jaded?
“Do you climb mountains? Or compete in fitness contests?”
His thumb traces lazy circles on my palm. “No. Why?”
“Just checking.”
After the concert ends, we gather our things and wander back up Broadway until we find the garage I parked in.
Now that I know he’s no chaste monk, but rather a man of finely directed artistic passion, I’m looking forward to the end of this date just as much as I was enjoying being on it. His hand is steady and warm on my lower back as I wish I’d parked farther just a little farther away. Too soon, I spot my little Subaru. As I pop the lock, Ryan’s hand snakes around my neck. His smoky eyes blaze as he leans in and kisses me. Pillowy soft lips brush against mine and his tongue dips into my mouth for a delicious tease before withdrawing. My pulse speeds as the kiss slows. The beard heightens the sensation to levels I’ve never reached until now. I’m starry-eyed as he pulls away.
Fall Hard (Dating Season Book 3) Page 2
