A Really Bad Idea

by Jeannine Colette

  I curve a brow and drop my knees. My book falls to the floor. “Huh?”

  “I won’t hop into bed with you until you go on three dates with me.” He’s dead serious.

  “Christian, that’s ridiculous. We’ve known each other for twenty-three years.”

  “That eager to get in my pants?” he teases.

  I’m thankful he can’t see me blush because he would have a field day with my reaction.

  “No!” I shout and reel it back in. “It seems like a waste of time and money to go out on formal dates.”

  “I want to do it right. Usually, I take a woman out before becoming intimate. You’re no different. In fact, you’re even more special, so, please, do me the honor and have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow?” I blanch at how soon he wants to start on these dates, which will ultimately lead to sex.

  Sex. With Christian.

  “Yes. A meal with just you and me,” he explains. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  “I can meet you—”

  “It’s a date. I’ll pick you up,” he states forcefully.

  I look down at the floor and my book that has landed cover side up. The hunky hero with a sexy torso is looking back at me. It’s reminiscent of Christian’s abs, which I snuck a peek at the other night. Ones I will surely touch when we … oh, wow. I haven’t touched another man since Brock. Maybe three dates is a good segue into getting my anxious mind used to the fact that this is really happening.

  “Okay. Tomorrow at eight. What should I wear?”

  “What do you usually wear on a date?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t been on a first date in nine years.”

  I can hear his breath against the phone as he smiles on the other end. “Wear the black dress you wore to your parents’ anniversary party.”

  That dress is form-fitted with spaghetti straps and a low hemline. It’s also pretty fancy, so I assume we’re going somewhere nice.

  “Okay. I will be waiting at eight. Have a good night.” I’m suddenly eager to end this phone call.

  “Meadow,” he calls out before I can hang up. “Sweet dreams.”

  “Good night, Christian.”

  I drop the phone on my duvet and let out the largest breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. I guess there’s one upside to this. I’m now so frazzled over the expectation of having sex with Christian that I’m not stressing over having his baby.

  If you think knowing what to wear on a date would make getting ready easier, you are wrong.

  Staring at my underwear drawer, I’m looking at the selection before me. I have G-strings, thongs, boy shorts, classic briefs, high waist with tummy control, and Spanx.

  In the past, I wasn’t a sex-on-the-first-date kinda girl, yet I always wore a little something sexy just in case.

  This is … different.

  While Christian said he wants three dates, it’s unnerving to know that, without question, there will be sex.

  Oh dear.

  “Tonight is only date one. That means, tonight calls for these,” I say to myself as I select the practical panties with the high waist for tummy control. They’re not the ugliest, but they aren’t my sexy-time lingerie. I grab my best strapless bra and secure it on.

  My indecisiveness didn’t start here. It began in the shower where I hemmed and hawed to myself, deciding how much personal grooming to do. I settled on doing the works.

  In the bathroom, I grab my deodorant and then apply perfume to my neck. Looking inside my panties, I give it a whirl and apply a little spritz down there.

  “Holy mother of—” I scream at the burning that is taking place over my freshly shaven hoo-ha. I’m dancing around my bathroom, airing out the sting of fragrance that is now making my skin turn red. “Well, that settles any concern about letting things go too far tonight.” One funky-looking razor burn is enough to keep the legs closed.

  When the pain has simmered down, I take a breath and look in the mirror over the sink. I tie my hair in a towel atop my head, and my skin is dewy from the bath. I have dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping well last night. How could I?

  Christian will be here in forty-five minutes, and I’m a ball of nerves. We’ve been friends for years, but we’ve never dined alone like this.

  With friends? Yes.

  With family? Countless times.

  Alone over a romantic dinner for two? Never.

  I’m not counting a sushi roll over lunch or eating it in the office break room or even sharing a blanket at a family picnic as having an intimate meal together. We always have coworkers or family around to join us. Tonight will be the first time we’ll be on a date.

  I try to block my mind from running rampant by curling my hair, using my big-barrel brush to form loose curls because I know that’s how he likes it. And, when I do my makeup, I keep it subtle, except for dramatic lashes because that’s how I like it.

  I slide my dress on and step into a pair of heels, taking one last look at myself in the mirror.

  “What are you so nervous about? It’s just Christian.”

  Just Christian. I feel like I’m lying.

  The man is beautiful. He gives me butterflies just with his damn grin. There, I admit it. I’ve always found him impossibly sexy, but it’s never been like that for us. We’ve never stepped out of the friend zone.

  Actually, we’re still in the friend zone. We’re not stepping into anything. We’re just—

  Buzz. Buzz.

  The telltale buzzing sound of Salvatore calling from the lobby has me answering my intercom. “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Miss Duvane. Dr. Christian Gallagher is in the lobby,” Salvatore announces.

  I scrunch my face in confusion. “You can send him up like you usually do.”

  He clears his throat. “He’s requested I announce him, as I would any of your dates.”

  I lean toward the wall with my hand still on the intercom. “I don’t have dates, Salvatore.”

  He speaks low into the intercom, “A lady never tells a man her personal business. Best to keep him guessing, is what my wife always says.”

  I smile. “I’ll be right down.”

  The elevator ride feels like it’s slower than usual as I descend from the fourteenth floor. My clutch is snug in my hands as I tap my fingers on the gold jewels on the front.

  Looking at my reflection in the steel doors, I see an attractive woman with curls running over her nearly bare shoulders and a heart-shaped face with a straight nose that’s accented with big brown eyes. I push my shoulders back into a confident stance, taking a deep breath in and holding my chin high. My lightly glossed lips are set in a pout. I look like a duck, and it makes me giggle at myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to never take myself too seriously. A good laugh is enough to make me realize that everything will work out.

  The doors open, and I step out into the lobby and straight toward the man waiting. As he stands in the middle of the room, his head is down as he adjusts his watch.

  He’s wearing dark jeans with a navy-blue V-neck sweater over a button-down with the collar open at the top. A gray blazer and black shoes complete his ensemble, making him look like he came straight out of a GQ catalog. But it’s not the clothes. No, it’s not the clothes that have me walking toward him with a staggered step.

  It’s the eyes.

  He looks up in slow motion, and those piercing emerald-green eyes are gazing at me hard, taking in every inch of me. From my toes peeking out of my jewel-encrusted heels to up my legs, up to my knees where the silk of my dress rests against my skin. His eyes rake over my hips and up the curve of my waist and my full breasts, stopping at my clavicle for just a second before settling on my mouth.

  It makes me stare at his lips and how they’re parted, looking soft on that hard jaw that is squared out like granite.

  “I’ve always loved you in that dress,” he says as he pulls me in for a hug. His lips graze my cheek and give a
second kiss to my jaw.

  I shiver. “You look handsome yourself.”

  He places a hand on my arm and runs it over the gooseflesh that’s appeared on my skin. “You’re freezing.”

  “I forgot my jacket,” I say despite how warm I feel. I turn toward the elevator.

  “Here, take mine.” He slides his off and wraps it around my shoulders.

  I revel in the soft fabric and woodsy scent of him.

  “Is that better?”

  “Much,” I breathe.

  Christian places a knuckle under my chin and lowers his eyes to mine. I hesitate as I move my own from the marble floor of the lobby and up into the swirl of his eyes.

  “There’s no reason to be nervous,” he whispers. “It’s just me. Your Christian.”

  I let out a shaky laugh. “You’re right. We’re just two friends having a simple dinner.”

  He pulls my chin closer, his lips close to my own. “I hate to break it to you, but we’ve passed simple. Tonight, I’m not here as a friend. I’m here as a man taking a beautiful woman out to dinner.”

  If I were another type of woman, I’d believe this was more than a means to an end. But I’m me, and he’s him. The fairy tale will be fun for a few dates, but I’ll keep myself checked into reality. Lord knows, I’ve lost myself to whimsy before.

  “Come on, Casanova. Take me and this dress out to dinner.” I grab his hand and pull him out of the lobby where he has a driver waiting.

  I slide into the SUV and look out the window as it travels down Central Park West, not asking questions until we get to the Brooklyn Bridge, and then I look over at Christian in confusion. His elbow is resting on the door with a finger tracing his lips. He doesn’t respond to my curiosity.

  The SUV exits toward the waterfront. Nestled under the stone pillars of the Brooklyn Bridge is a restaurant, The River Café, seated on an old barge. From here, the city across the East River looks as magnificent as it does on television—all darkly silhouetted skyscrapers illuminated with golden lights, enhanced by the reddish pink of the setting sun. Forget wine and dine. The view is enough to make you want to go home and make love.

  “Breaking out the big guns,” I mutter, taking his hand as he escorts me outside of the car and into the landmark restaurant I’ve always wanted to dine at.

  The maître d’ escorts us to a table by the window, and I look out at the Manhattan skyline mirrored in the harbor, reflecting in its still wake as the moon casts a glow from the cloudless evening.

  I take in the candles flickering against the crisp white tablecloth, basking a warm light on my dinner companion. “Is this where you take all your women?”

  “My parents’ wedding was here thirty-nine years ago. We’ve come as a family a few times.”

  The Gallaghers were married in September, a month that is the perfect mix of warm and cool here in New York. I can picture the windows open as the wedding guests laughed and danced. The restaurant is high class yet casual at the same time.

  “You should take more dates here. It makes an impression.”

  He grins. “Taking a woman to the place my parents were married could leave her with the wrong impression.”

  “Good thing you’re not worried about giving me the wrong impression.” My voice deepens with my joke.

  “I couldn’t imagine taking you anywhere else for our first date.”

  I’m blushing. You can’t feel yourself blushing, but there’s a warming on my skin, and if that isn’t radiating a blush, then I don’t what is. I clear my throat and straighten my posture, attempting to seem cool.

  “Okay, lay it on me. What’s next on the Christian Gallagher plan of woo?”

  “Woo?” He raises a brow. “I don’t woo.”

  “You should woo. You’re fantastic without even trying.”

  “It’s good to know that, if I were trying, you’d have no idea.”

  “Oh, I know there’s a plan. Dr. Gallagher has too methodical of a mind not to plan his entire date down to the final walk to the door. So, tell me, what’s your move?”

  He shakes his head and looks up at me through dark lashes. I’m drumming my fingers on the table, waiting for an answer.

  His grin lets me know I’ve won. “If you must know, I have the waiter come over with the finest cabernet and two glasses.”

  “That is so cliché.”

  “I know,” he admits, just as the waiter walks over to the table with a bottle in his hand. This bottle, however, is not a cabernet or a wine of any type. It’s a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue. “That’s why I’ve upped my game for you.”

  The waiter places two glasses filled with ice on the table and pours the scotch into each. When he’s gone, Christian lifts a glass to cheers. I can’t help my own lopsided smile as I clink.

  Instead of ordering entrees, we settle on eating every appetizer on the menu, having them served three dishes at a time so that we can savor each one and talk. A pianist plays in the background, yet I can’t hear the lyrics to the song, only the laughter coming out of Christian’s mouth as he entertains me with stories I’ve never heard about his time in San Francisco and how he loved to eat at this pub in the Noe Valley because it reminded him of his grandmother’s cooking.

  “There was this woman named Nora who would come and sit with me and bring a basket of potato-and-cheddar biscuits. I swear, sometimes, I wake up from dreaming about them; they were so good.”

  “Dreaming about another woman’s biscuits?”

  “If you had them, you would, too. She was the chef there and taught me how to make her beef brisket and sweet potato stew. I’ll make it for you sometime.”

  I squint an eye and scrunch my mouth. “I didn’t know you cooked.”

  “I don’t, but it doesn’t mean I can’t. I just have no one to cook for.”

  We talk about travel—where we’ve been and where we want to go. Me, Fiji. Him, to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. Two wildly different locations but equally desirable.

  We talk work but not the mundane. I fill him in on some of my interesting cases, and he tells me about his most recent time in the operating room. It’s hard to miss how his eyes light up when he’s talking about the human heart and repairing it from the inside out.

  We order dessert—a tiramisu to share. When it’s served, Christian slides his hand onto the table, palm up. I wonder if this is part of his dating repertoire. If I take his hand, then the relationship will be entering the next phase—the more intimate phase.

  I stare at his palm. It looks warm and inviting. How easy it would be to slide mine onto his and let his thumb run along the inside—

  “Meadow, is that you?”

  My thoughts are interrupted by Frank Romano, otherwise known as Bachelor Number One from my birthday ambush. He walks up to the edge of our table, looking shocked at the sight of us here.

  “Christian Gallagher! What are the odds of seeing you two here tonight?”

  “Slim,” Christian answers with a genuine smile.

  Standing behind Frank is a little redhead wearing a fifties-style dress with cherries on it.

  Frank pulls her into his side. “We were just about to sit down, and I looked over here and couldn’t believe my eyes. Vicki, these are my friends from high school.”

  “Nice to meet you,” the girl nestled into the crook of his arm says with no evidence of her being offended by his cologne, which is making my nose tickle.

  “Vicki and I have been talkin’ online for a few weeks and finally met. Romantic place here, ya know. What’s up with you two? Are you …” Frank motions with his head back and forth between me and Christian. His mouth is turned down in that way Italians do when they’re asking you a question that is rather personal.

  “We’re just enjoying dinner,” I answer matter-of-factly.

  I don’t miss the way Christian pulls his hand back toward him.

  “That’s too bad,” Frank says and then turns to Vicki. “These two beautiful people are the only ones on the pl
anet who don’t think they should be together. In high school, we were waiting for them to date, but they were always with other people.”

  “You seem like a lovely couple,” Vicki drawls.

  “We’re not a couple,” I answer, pushing the air in between me and Christian away, as if distancing myself from him. “Just two friends enjoying some fine Italian cuisine. We like to share food. And scotch. And look at pretty views. But definitely not a couple.” I nod for good measure and then swallow down how much I feel like a fool right now. Not for being with Christian. For pretending I’m not with Christian.

  Frank and Vicki are looking at me with blank stares and wrinkly foreheads.

  “You two though make a great couple,” I add. “We’re taking up too much of your time. Enjoy your first date. May it be the first of many.” I raise my glass in salute and then take a swig. It’s a big swig because I’m now coughing.

  “It’s nice seeing you.” Christian nods to them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vicki.”

  Frank is petting his stomach as he looks at me with a furrowed brow. Vicki gives a closed-mouth smile as she steps out of Frank’s arm and wraps her elbow with his. They walk away toward the opposite side of the room.

  As soon as they are clear of our table, I lean back and feel the relief of having them far away. When I look at Christian, his gaze is focused on the waiter as he calls him over.

  “The couple who was just here—the gentleman with dark hair and the woman with cherries on her dress—send a bottle of champagne to their table and add it to my bill.”

  The waiter nods at the request and scurries off, leaving just me and Christian—and his very serious stare. The stare isn’t accompanied by words. No, it’s more powerful than that. It’s like laser beams being tossed like daggers into my chest as he sits in silence, patient and pining.

  I have the undeniable feeling that I hurt his feelings. It’s confirmed when he finally speaks.

  “We’ve been friends for a long time, and that’s the first time I’ve ever felt like it embarrasses you to be with me.”

  “I panicked. It was childish.” I let out an apologetic breath. “I’m sorry.”