Three Blind Dates

by Meghan Quinn

  “Hey, good show,” Beck says, stepping onto the set, looking around, taking in the low-hanging set lights and fake Malibu background behind us.

  “You’re only saying that to be nice.” I brush the skirt of my dress over my legs, trying to busy myself. “I was a train wreck today.”

  Beck shrugs. “My favorite was when you took a bite of the fritter and a huge piece came off, so you decided to shove the whole thing in your mouth and continued to ask interview questions. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone pull off talking with their mouth full and look so pretty at the same time. It was impressive.”

  My ears heat up and I can feel my cheeks turn red. “Yeah, not one of my finest moments.”

  “But hilarious.” Gesturing with his head, he says, “Want to grab a coffee?”

  “Uh, sure, that would be nice,” I answer nervously. “Just let me wrap up a few things, and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “Sounds good.”

  He takes off toward the lobby while I stand from the couch. When I turn to Dylan, she has one hand on her hip, the other behind her head, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip and she’s thrusting her pelvis in the air.

  I don’t even bother to stick around. I make my way to my dressing room and grab my purse. I check my phone to find a notification. I have a message from NY152.

  Curious, I open it up.

  Noely,

  Cornuco-cupine? I need two of those for Thanksgiving. Can I pick those up at any store, or is that something I need to order from you?

  Also, that dress . . . Fuck, you looked hot in it.

  Me

  Smiling like a fool, I type back.

  NY152,

  Cornuco-cupines are available at every major retailer starting next week. Be sure to get yours as soon as possible. I heard they’re a hot commodity.

  Also, I would say you’re looking hot as well, but then again, I have no idea who you are or what you’re wearing, so I’m afraid I can’t return the compliment.

  Noely

  I shut my dressing room door and head to the lobby just as I receive another message.

  Noely,

  All in good time.

  Me

  Shaking my head at his reluctance to give in, I put my phone in my purse and walk to Beck. Looking up from his phone, he pockets it and smiles brightly.

  “I have just the place for us, Sassy.” He holds his arm out to me, which I link with mine and allow him to guide me out of the studio.

  ***

  “Wow, I had no idea you were part of such a great program,” I say, sipping my coffee.

  “I’m very proud of it,” Beck answers somberly, his demeanor changing from teasing to serious.

  For the past half hour, I’ve listened to Beck speak passionately about his involvement with Feasts for Families. He not only helps, but he founded it. I knew from his dating profile he was passionate about philanthropy, but I had no idea the extent of it. And that’s a shame, because it shows we didn’t really take the time to talk about things.

  “So your handle RebelWithACause rings true.”

  He nods, leaning back in his chair. “It does.” Stroking his jaw, he studies me and says, “Eight years ago, I flipped my world upside down with one wrong decision and since then, I’ve spent every day trying to change the man I once was. Trying to be better, trying to wash away the thoughts of the lives I changed.”

  Curious, I place my hand on his and ask, “What did you do?”

  Pained and clearly uncomfortable, he lets out a long breath. “Let’s just say, I don’t drink for a reason.” He’s silent as he stares at his coffee and I realize that whatever happened, whatever he went through, has truly affected him to the core. It’s branded him, imprinted on his soul. Now his purpose is to serve for others. He’s a good man.

  Not wanting to push him too far and also happy for how he opened up to me, I say, “Do you only work with families during Thanksgiving?”

  He shakes his head. “No, I volunteer with a lot of different organizations. I also do some public speaking, but my favorite thing is teaching the kids at the museum. We have a discovery zone and every Tuesday we paint murals on paper for future exhibits. I give them an animal, we educate the kids on their natural habitat, and then they paint their own diorama mural. It’s fun to see what they come up with.”

  “That’s kind of awesome. I mean . . . I want to come paint a habitat.”

  Beck chuckles. “Kids only. Sorry there, Sassy.”

  I snap my fingers in disappointment. “Darn.”

  Looking more relaxed than ever, Beck asks, “So how’s it going? Go on any other blind dates after the jock?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’ve kind of taken a break on the whole dating scene.”

  “Yeah?” Beck plays with an unused napkin that’s on the table, fidgeting with the corners. “Why’s that?”

  I shrug my shoulders even though I know the answer. “Just thought I should focus on me a little bit.”

  “Or are you worried that the next date won’t work out as well?”

  Twisting my lips, I stare at him, hating that he hit the nail on the head. “Maybe,” I answer shyly.

  “No need to be self-conscious, Noely. You’re a catch.” He fidgets with the napkin. “Any guy would be lucky to date you.” Slowly, he lifts his eyes. His eyelashes are full and black, making the hues of his irises pop.

  “Yeah?” I ask, feeling uncomfortable from the way he’s looking at me, as if any moment he’s about to tip our table over and devour me. From the beginning, Beck has been easy to read, his body language is quite clear. Right now? He still wants me.

  “Yeah.” He shifts in his seat and gives me a once-over, luring me into his lustful ways.

  Physical. It’s been so physical with him. Maybe it’s his aura or the kind of vibe he gives off. Whatever it is, once again, it’s pulling me.

  Clearing my throat, trying to tamp down my hormones, I say, “I should probably go, I have some things . . . I have some errands to run.”

  “Yeah, I better get back to the museum. I have some wall touch-ups to make.” Beck stands and collects our trash. Tossing it in the garbage can behind him, he turns to face me, and watches intently as I stand, lending a hand that I take. It’s warm, and large, and rough, everything I expect him to be. Maybe everything I want him to be?

  Guiding me out of the coffee house, hand still attached to mine, he spins me to face him when we reach the front. He places his hands on my hips and smiles at me, causing my breath to catch in my throat.

  “Thank you for spending some time with me today. It was fun catching up.” He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering against my cheek.

  “It was,” I say, my voice feeling heavy with lust. “I loved hearing about your different charities. It will be good to get you on the morning show to talk about them, especially Feasts for Families.”

  “I would love that.” Scanning my eyes, his bouncing back and forth, he smirks and leans forward, placing a light kiss on my forehead. “I’ll be in touch, Sassy.” With one parting glance, he releases me from his tight grasp and takes off toward his motorcycle. I watch him hop on and secure his helmet, his leg straddling the powerful piece of machinery between them. He gives me a chaste wave, roars the bike to life, and in one swift move, drives off, the rumble of his bike echoing in his wake.

  Clutching my purse to my side, I stare into the distance.

  I’ll be in touch, Sassy.

  What did he mean by that? Could he possibly be alluding to NY152? I know he wants me physically, and in sharing that small morsel of information about himself, I can almost believe he’s wanting to open up emotionally.

  Thinking about the program more intelligently, Hayden really couldn’t have been NY152 because how would he have been able to make a new profile? Beck has a friend behind the scenes and Jack owns the whole program, they both have access to creating a new profile. The question is, which man is it? I
s Beck the one who wants me to desperately fall in love with him? Hmm . . . now I’ll be obsessing even more over this.

  ***

  Noely,

  Have you ever had a day where you find yourself in a daze? The kind of daze that is neither happy nor sad, but just contemplative? I had one of those today. I found myself walking along the country market, looking for nothing, but taking in everything. I stood in front of a toy store window. I stared for what seemed like forever, observing all the bright colors, the flimsy objects that are supposed to entertain kids, and I kept thinking, where has the time gone?

  I can remember like it was yesterday, playing in my room with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figures, not a worry in the world besides the new shoes I was dying to have. It seems so close, yet so distant.

  Life was simple back then, now everything has its challenges . . . like you.

  I walked around aimlessly, trying to figure you out, trying to think of ways I could help you understand the pull I have toward you, but it almost seems impossible to put a gravitational pull into words.

  How do you explain to someone that deep in your soul, you know you’re meant to be with someone? Like our meeting was kismet? Like the roller coaster of our lives came to a conversion point, at a time we weren’t ready for, but a time we needed the most.

  Does that make any sense? Am I making any sense at all?

  Me

  NY152,

  Maybe it’s hard to write out because it’s so much easier to show. If you feel so strongly about us, about what we share, why don’t you SHOW me. Go out on another date with me. I’m getting stir crazy. I want to know who you are.

  Noely

  Noely,

  Let me ask you this. If you could choose between The Suit and The Rebel, is it a clear-cut choice? Would you be disappointed if the one you wanted to show up turned out to be the other? Do you have your heart set on one particular man?

  Me

  NY152,

  At this point, I have my heart set on you.

  Noely

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  NOELY

  “Mommy doesn’t exist for the next few hours, but she loves you, don’t forget that. She loves you so much she wants you to leave her alone. Bye, bye.” Dylan hangs up her phone and plops it in the cup holder of her chair. Leaning her head back, she soaks up the sun.

  Fall in Malibu doesn’t necessarily scream pumpkins and apple cider; it’s maybe a few degrees cooler, but that’s about it. That’s why Dylan and I are hanging out on the beach, toes in the sand, faces pointed toward the sun, soaking in the sun’s rays. The breeze makes it a little chilly for a bathing suit, so instead I’m wearing a pair of small denim shorts and a red V-neck shirt, perfect for the seventy-five-degree weather.

  Huffing next to me, Dylan says, “God, I love those kids, but if they call me one more time while I’m trying to bury the sun into my pores, I’m going to go home as a bitter woman and pee all over their toys.”

  “That’s horrifying, but for some odd reason, I’m envisioning it in my head.”

  “Am I wearing a carpet vest? As a bitter, peeing mom, I feel like I would wear a carpet vest.”

  “Uhh . . .” I pause from the odd question. “I never thought about clothes for you.”

  “You want me to be naked? Typical. You’re such a pervert.”

  I can’t even with her.

  “Fine, you have a vest.” I roll my eyes and sip my water.

  We sit in silence, our feet warming from the sand, the waves crashing, echoing through the quiet beach. We chose a deserted location, intentionally staying away from tourists. In all honesty, we chose a private residence beach. Dylan’s friend owns a beach house and is out of town right now, so we might have jumped their fence with our chairs and cooler, then hiked it down the steps along the cliff that brought us down to their private beach.

  I’m not proud of it, but I’m very happy about it, especially since I don’t have to listen to random tourists yell at their kids to be careful.

  Dylan pops open her e-reader and starts reading, her sunglasses helping protect her eyes from the brightness of the sun. Seeing she’s distracted by her latest historical romance infatuation, I pull out my phone. Since my last message, I haven’t heard anything from NY152 and it’s making me slightly apprehensive. Did I scare him away? Does he not believe me?

  What I’ve come to realize over the last few weeks while messaging him—whoever he is—is that it isn’t about if he’s The Suit or The Rebel anymore. It’s become more about the man I’ve gotten to know. The man who’s opened up, who’s joked, and who’s stolen my little romantic heart with his gestures and words.

  Feeling sad there isn’t a message from him, I decide to type my own message out.

  NY152,

  I’ve had an obsession lately, and I’m not about to tell you this so you start sending me baskets full of them, but because I want to know if you happen to have the same taste buds as me.

  Do you . . . like Butterfingers? (holds breath)

  Noely

  I press send and wait for a response. Looking toward the ocean, I think about one of NY152’s previous messages, about how childhood seems so close, yet so far away. I can remember going to the beach with my parents, with Alex, building sand castles, burying our dad in the sand, and running through the short waves on the shoreline, never letting the water get past my knees. They were simpler times, times where you didn’t have to worry about things like finding someone to share your life with, or worrying about a job, or winding up alone. It might sound ridiculous, to worry about finding the counterpoint to your soul with all the other things happening in the world. But growing up with loving parents, parents who still adore each other, they set the bar high for me. They’re what I so desperately want to replicate.

  Ding.

  A message.

  Smiling, I open it up.

  Noely,

  Butterfingers, hmm . . . what if I told you I had a bag of them in my cabinet right now? Would that score me some brownie points?

  Me

  Not able to hold back my smirk, I type him back.

  NY152,

  Are you saying that just to say that? Or do you really have Butterfingers in your cabinet? If so, we might be a match made in heaven.

  Noely

  Exiting out of the app, I set my phone down on my lap and reach for my drink just in time to see a familiar figure walking in my direction.

  “Oh my God,” I whisper.

  “What?” Dylan asks, eyes still trained on her e-reader.

  Walking up to us, wearing worn, tight-fitting jeans and a light blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, is Jack Valentine. Boy, does he look good.

  “I thought that was you,” he says when he reaches our beach chairs. Dylan lowers her sunglasses and eyes Jack up and down. A noncommittal grunt comes from her before she turns back to her e-reader.

  “Jack, what are you doing here?”

  “I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, adjusting my shirt as I turn to face him in my chair.

  He motions to the house behind us. “Well, this is my neighbor’s house, and this is his private beach. He’s out of town, and said I’d keep an eye on his house for him. When I saw two women camping out in his sand, I figured I’d see who the squatters were. To my surprise, it’s the hosts of Good Morning, Malibu.” He searches around, a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Are you two doing a segment on a weekend I don’t know about? How to break into someone’s private beach?”

  “Ehhh . . .” I look at Dylan who doesn’t seem to care at all about what’s going on. With my foot, I poke her to gather her attention, but she swats me away. Nervously laughing, I shrug my shoulders, “Uh, is this not the proper thing to do? Crash out on private beaches?”

  Jack’s smile lights up his entire face as he shakes his head. “No. It can actually get you put in jail, you know, trespassing on private p
roperty. That’s if someone calls you in.” He reaches in his pocket, takes out his phone and starts flipping it in his hand.

  “You hearing this, Dylan?” I poke her again with my foot.

  “Stop poking me. I’m at the good part where her milky breasts are revealed.” Once again, Dylan swats at me, leaving me out to dry.

  “You know”—Jack rocks on his heels—“how about this? I don’t call the cops on you if you come up to my house for a drink.”

  Looking up to the cliff, to the residence behind us, I take in the two houses that flank each side, both beautiful, both houses I could only dream of having. I bet the view is amazing from up there.

  Just to make his point clear, Jack adds, “Good Morning, Malibu’s hosts being booked for trespassing doesn’t necessary scream good ratings to me.” He smiles, confident in his proposal.

  “You wouldn’t call the cops.”

  “Try me.” He holds up his phone and even though I’m 99.9% confident he wouldn’t make that call, I’m actually quite interested to see what his house looks like. Plus, we’re friends now, right?

  Standing from my chair, I gather my purse and phone. “Jail doesn’t seem fun right now, so I’ll take you up on that drink.”

  “Smart.” He takes in Dylan. Pointing at her, he asks, “Is she going to be okay here?”

  “She’s going to be perfectly fine.”

  “After you, then,” Jack says, his voice light, his demeanor almost giddy. It’s odd, seeing him like this, but also kind of infatuating.

  ***

  Have you ever looked up a realty website, stuck in the most expensive budget, and just drooled all over the houses you wish you could own?

  Jack’s house is one of those.

  Whoever built his house spent every waking minute constructing it so no matter what room you were in, you had an almost panoramic view of the crystal-blue ocean. The living room has pocket doors that span the length of the house, opening up to a gorgeous deck with clear glass walls, white concrete flooring, and the most beautiful rectangular fire pit I’ve ever seen. And when I say fire pit, I mean fire comes out of glass rocks. It’s so gorgeous. The bedrooms and bathrooms have stunning views as well, the master opening to the length of the deck, adding another outdoor/indoor living space. I’ve never seen anything like it.