“It’s going to be hard”—he blows out a breath—“but I can’t kiss you until the third date.”
Internal sigh.
He’s not a guy who seems like he waits for anything, so I can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“Because I like you. So I need to do it when it’s my favorite number.”
“Got you,” I manage to say.
If swooning existed, I’d swoon right here in the driveway. He’s so sexy in the moonlight with his tousled hair and inked arms. Like I’d date his arms, if I could.
Somehow, he slides a hand into my matted hair and hunches down to take a deep inhale. “You smell like strawberries.”
“It’s the Jell-O,” I whisper.
“Mm.” He releases me with a pained groan. “You’re too tempting. I should go.”
I’m not opposed to that when the porch light flickers on, casting a spotlight on our hidden moment. The light goes off, but I can’t shake the feeling Austin is lurking at the window like a parent.
“Okay. Thanks for the ride home.”
“A man never lets his date leave in an Uber.”
Take that, Finn. Condors soar in my belly as he slings a leg over his bike and revs the engine. Have I finally found a real man?
As Dune’s bike roars away, Austin sticks his head out. “He’s leaving so soon?”
I brush past him and his questioning look at my stiff, Jell-O head. “How very dare you, sir? I am a staunch third-dater. Don’t ask about my hair.”
“I had already decided I might not want to know what was happening there.”
“Well, good.” Things have been a little tense between us. We’ve already had a couple of roommate altercations, because you never really know someone until you live with them. Turns out living with a chef comes with a few unspoken rules of which I was unaware. For example, there’s only one way to load a dishwasher, and even if the cycle is halfway through, one must stop the cleansing in order to redo the arrangement inside. Or that “kitchen shears” have a different meaning for someone who spatchcocks their own chickens for roasting, and one may not utilize them to trim one’s bangs. Not to mention, pans are stacked by coating and not size. I can only assume moving the Jell-O from my hair into a bowl for midnight snacking is frowned upon for similar reasons.
“Is there food that isn’t Jell-O?”
“Nothing special. Didn’t you literally just get home from dinner? What kind of date doesn’t feed you?”
“First date drinks. I’ll just make a sandwich.”
“Hey, Chloe,” Lucy says from the couch, glamorous as always with shimmering hair. “Austin was so cute. Like a big brother waiting for his little sister.”
Well, don’t I feel incestuous. Showering should be first on the agenda, but now I need to eat my feelings.
“I’m a big girl. No need to worry about me,” I throw over my shoulder on my way to the kitchen. In honor of my new friend Hambone, I grab capicola from the alphabetically arranged deli drawer.
While I slather mustard on the bread, a shadow falls across the counter. I look up to see Austin propped against the arched entranceway, arms crossed.
“I don’t even pretend to understa—” He looks at my half-made sandwich. “What are you doing? What is that?”
He seems alarmed by my French’s squeeze-bottle and packet of individually wrapped cheese slices.
With pinched lips, he stalks across, swipes my sandwich, and drops it into the trash. “Austin, what are you doing?”
“You’re relieved of kitchen duty. Have a seat while I show you what a real sandwich is.”
“Tell me all about your guy,” Lucy says, joining the ambush. “If he works out at SuperFit, I might know him.”
As I settle at the breakfast table with Lucy, Austin gathers everything to build new and improved sandwiches. The kind with ripe tomatoes. Lettuce that doesn’t come shrink-wrapped in a big, tasteless ball. He makes bacon and not in the microwave. This is living. And to think, SuperFinn thought he would swoop in and take this away from me. Nope, don’t think about your ex, after a date, in front of your roommate crush. Former crush. Former-ish. The crush has faded exponentially since I moved in with Austin. It’s minuscule. As long as I don’t look at his arms rippling as he chops. Or how he all but dances around the kitchen so gracefully. Or the way his gray pajama pants cling to his hips.
“Yeah, how did the blind date go?” Austin asks, flipping strips of sizzling bacon.
“It was…” I pause to select the right word. I’ve banished good from my vocabulary.
“If you take that long to think about it, it wasn’t great,” he says.
“Yes, it was.” Sure, the Jell-O thing wasn’t fantastic, and I accomplished nothing I set out to do, but there’s insane chemistry and date two is my opportunity to correct my mistakes.
“Mm-hmm.” He looks over his shoulder at me.
“You don’t seem the biker type,” Lucy adds.
“I’m learning I don’t have a type.” And I like that new discovery about me. “Plus, I’m expanding my horizons.”
“Is he in a motorcycle club?” she asks.
“I don’t know?”
“Did he have patches?”
Clearly, I failed at this date. If his sexiness hadn’t consumed me, I would have noticed that detail. “I was busy Jell-O wrestling, so things kind of slipped by me.”
In slow motion, Austin turns around. “I don’t… Did I hear that correctly? Jell-O wrestling?”
“Is it really so shocking?” I could bring up the handcuffs I found in his room, but I won’t.
“Well yeah, it kind of is,” Lucy says, with wonder-filled eyes. “But opposites do attract.”
“We’re not that different,” I say. “Are we?”
“Polar. He’s a biker,” she says. “You rarely go out. You’re…you’re a homebody.” She places her hand on mine. “Not that staying at home is bad. I worked with a girl once who people nicknamed Boring Belinda. Sounds mean, but God, she really was boring. Like prop your eyelids open with toothpicks boring. Once, I dozed off in a meeting when she presented a new campaign. Anyway, the point of the story. As boring as she was, she ended up married to a guy in a rock band. Maybe this guy is your rockstar. See?”
Um, no, I don’t see. Is she implying I’m boring? If she wasn’t so nice, I’d find it offensive. Am I boring? Lucy would have thrown her hands in the air and squealed with glee as Dune rocketed across town at ninety miles an hour. She would never put nap dates on a list, which is why she gets nap dates. Oh God, I’m boring. I’m never going to get my bad boy kiss once he realizes I’m Comatose Chloe. Charlotte inadvertently teased me with something I really want, but will never attain.
“Hold one moment, please.” I scoot away from the table and zip across the tiled floor. “I’ll be right back.”
Dull people don’t do what I’m about to do. I fish my phone out of my bag and type out a message to Dune.
“Maybe you should pick me up at three o’clock since it’s your favorite number?”
Okay, maybe they do. That was lame. I’ll think of something better after I eat.
“So are you seeing him again?” Lucy asks when I return.
“Yes. Next Saturday, he’s taking me rock climbing.” Austin’s judgies are palpable as he pats the bacon with a paper towel so I say, “Look, he’s a respectable accountant, not a criminal.”
“You had no idea Finn was a millionaire in training with a stepmother fetish, so yeah”—he lifts a brow—“your endorsement is weak.”
“It’s not like I can just ask him if he’s in a gang.” How does one address that without being offensive?
“I can ask him,” he says.
“Oh my God, no.”
He finally drops it to focus on finding the crispest leaves of lettuce with the perfect crinkle edges. Forty minutes later, when I gobble my gourmet sandwich, I wonder how it’s possible that someone so anal can also be so hot. Perhaps, I should add it to my list of approved q
ualities.
Three
Things I Never Realized Turned Me On:
Country music
Wallets on a chain
Spreadsheets
Dune’s naughty lip ring all but begs me to make out with it while he rambles on about the importance of spreadsheets.
“If I ever get my business going, I’ll use one to keep things organized,” I promise as he drives through town to our rock date destination.
“Do it. It’s a calculator come to life,” he says with such passion, I want to live in a spreadsheet.
He’s so intelligent and has shared all kinds of business advice this week in our text messages and calls.
“Just need to make a quick drop at the clubhouse,” he says, turning down a tree-lined road.
Can’t help but notice he said drop and not stop. My heart pounds and not the pitter-patter kind from staring at him. Is this Jeep filled with drugs?
“What are you dropping off?” I ask, casually.
“The helmet from last week.”
Ah, phew. All week Austin has planted doubts in my mind that Dune is nefarious. I’ll be happy to report my bad boy is a good boy.
He stops at a gate bearing two skulls with snakes slithering in their eye sockets. “Let me in,” he says to the intercom.
“What’s the magic word?” a female voice asks.
Nice. Equal opportunity employers.
He huffs and then says, “Please.”
I smile as whoever is on the other side swings open the gate and allows us access to a sprawling area of land. It’s not the warehouse-style clubhouse I expected to see. At the end of the drive sits a massive two-story log house with a wide front porch. Okay, I can handle this.
“This is beautiful. It looks like somewhere I’d want to sit and sip hot chocolate by the fire on a snowy day.”
Dune grins. “It’s the Pres’s house.”
Ah, they have a president. While that hierarchy sinks in, he parks by a cluster of motorcycles.
“It’s picnic day. Let’s grab something to eat before we head out.”
Um, picnicking is not a quick drop. Why must everyone spring things upon me at the last minute? Someone needs to put that in the dating rule handbook, because none of my extensive research says to blindside your date with meeting new people. Not to mention, we brought nothing to the picnic. Granny Mae always says to never come empty-handed.
“Well, we didn’t bring any food.”
“No one cares,” he says, retrieving the helmet off the back seat.
Sure they don’t. They may say that, but if this relationship continues, I’ll be nicknamed something horrible like Freeload. “Is there a nearby market?”
He grins. “You’re adorable. But they really don’t care.”
In my biker etiquette research, I learned that challenging your man is frowned upon, and... I already know that’s something I’ll never follow.
“She cares.” I point to a passing woman in jean shorts with an armload of Tupperware.
“Maggie,” he calls out to her.
She waves and pivots. “Hey, Dune.”
“Can you come here for a second?” She nods and sashays up to the Jeep. “My girl refuses to go in without food. Says it’s rude. Can you spare something?”
Gasp. His girl. The fact he ratted me out is forgiven immediately under the terms of the Bad Boy Law of the Universe.
“Sure.” She hands him a square container. “Take these cookies.”
“That’s so nice of you,” I say, awed by her generosity. “Thank you. I’ll pay for them.”
“No, no. Girl, we’re good. Don’t mention it,” she says. “See you out back.”
“Happy now?” he asks when she’s gone.
“Very. That was sweet of her.”
With my borrowed cookies, we head to a manicured backyard laden with beards, red gingham tablecloths, and an assortment of food. Anything you could want—burgers, hot dogs, ribs, potato and pasta salads, grilled chicken, on and on. All things that would work as a first date wedding dinner. Not that I’m even thinking of getting married, but anywho. No one seems to mind our sporty attire, possibly because Dune has accessorized his black athletic shorts and Harley T-shirt with a leather vest.
As he’s greeted with hearty back slaps, I hang back a bit, soaking it all in until a stocky man with a bushy beard approaches.
“Who’s this, Dune?” he asks.
“This is Chloe, Pres.”
Pres holds out his hand for me to shake. “Hi, Chloe.”
“Hi, Mr. President.” Hearty laughter ensues. Everyone thinks this is so funny, but hello, I literally don’t know his name.
He nods to my container. “What do you have there?”
“Cookies.”
“Love cookies. What kind?”
That’s an excellent question. Since I have no clue the answer, I improvise and remove the lid to reveal unidentifiable misshapen tan cookies the size of a quarter. Great.
“See if you can guess,” I say.
He selects one, and suddenly many hands are everywhere grabbing a sample like I work at Costco. In order to complete the charade I baked these, I snag one too, so I know the answer. Like a weird cookie gang bang, we all take a bite. Oh, dear. My tastebuds revolt.
Not to be ungrateful to Maggie’s selfless gift, but it’s so dry and bland I can’t figure out what kind it is. Other than awful. Sorry, Maggie.
Mr. President chews slowly, with narrowed eyes, and I’m impressed at his ability to swallow the darn thing. “Sugar?” he says.
I nod, because at this point it doesn’t matter. My cookie reputation is unrepairable. No one will ever trust anything I bring again. Somewhere, Granny Mae weeps.
Dune’s humor-filled gaze meets mine. “Let’s go put them on the table.” He leads me away. “Your face was priceless. What the hell is that cookie?”
“That cookie is a lesson to never show up empty-handed,” I say and sigh. “I’m a fraud and got what I deserve.”
He steps in front of me to massage my slumped shoulders, kneading the sagging muscles. “They like you. Shitty cookie or not. Sometimes you gotta roll with it.”
Seems I’m always rolling. I’m a tumbleweed, drifting who knows where. But that’s what I do for the next half hour. I could list all the ways I’m rolling.
Ways I Roll:
When Jell-O Woman, aka Bev, asks if I want a rematch, I laugh and say, “You’re the champion and I respect that,” even though she basically cheated.
When Frog says my cookie nearly choked him to death and to please never bring them again, I smile and tell him he’ll catch more flies with honey.
When Dune disappears inside for a twenty-minute game of pool, I hang out by the deviled eggs and have an impromptu egg-eating contest with a man named Goose.
That’s how I roll. Whether they like me is questionable, but they’re at least tolerating me, so that’s good.
When we leave, I’m all ready for a brand new shiny gym with no Finn in sight, but Dune keeps on driving right out of town.
Puzzled, I ask, “Where’s the gym?”
“Gyms are for pussies.” He winks. “We’re going to rock climb like men.”
I peer down at my pink tank and black athletic shorts to confirm my breasts and vagina are still there. I was very nearly a SuperFit girl, now I have to be a man?
“Don’t I need training for that? I mean, it’s a mountain?”
“We’re starting out easy with bouldering.”
“That doesn’t sound easy.” I laugh, but I’m dead serious.
He chuckles. “You can trust me.”
Hopefully, that’s true. This explains why he picked me up in a Jeep instead of on the bike. Oh well, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved we’re not going to the gym. Although, I’m less relieved now considering my imminent death by fall, rather than by a crash.
The dating experts say to keep a positive mindset if you want a positive outcome, so I banish all negativi
ty. I’m sure Lucy wouldn’t think a thing about being thrust onto a real mountain. She’d jettison up using her shiny hair for rope. I can do that too. I’m going to be the most exciting climber that ever climbed. Those rocks won’t know what to do with all my non-boring sass.
With the top down on the Jeep, my tornado hair provides cover to ogle Dune as he drives. A country music song about a good man blasts into the warm air, while I study the art on his arms. He’s like a painting I want to deconstruct. Last week, in the bar, the dim lighting shadowed the intricacies of his tattoos.
I lean closer toward a robed figure sitting on a hill near his elbow. “Is that Jesus?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Got that one a year ago.”
Well, take that, Austin. He can’t be in an illicit gang. What criminal would tattoo Jesus? That would be hypocritical, right?
“So, you’re a religious man?”
“Nah,” he says. “Thought it was cool because of the Holy Trinity. Three, ya know?”
I should just come out and ask like Austin suggested, but my research of bikers over the week doesn’t recommend it.
“Would you ever get a tattoo?” he asks.
“A tattoo has never been on my to-do list, but who knows?” I hedge.
“I like your unmarked skin. But if you ever decide to get one, maybe I’ll get another. It’s addictive.”
So are the lazy circles he’s tracing on my thigh with his thumb.
He turns down a bone-jostling gravel road, and then parks in the shade of towering pines.
“We’re just going to hike that trail to a creek bed and that’s where the boulders are.”
Lovely, a hike before the climb. Positive mental attitude, I remind myself. The aim is to make today successful, so I can move on to round three of kissing. That sounds ridiculous. When did I become a walking hormone and not an intelligent woman achieving her life goals? Is this really my objective? He looks over at me and the sun glints off his silver lip ring. I’ll work on my issues after date three.
“Ready when you are,” Positive Me says.
“Let me grab the stuff.”
Summer Rebound (Dating Season Book 2) Page 2
