by Anne Connor
“No? You mean, I don’t want to be a journalist? That I’m going to fail miserably?”
“I don’t know if you want to be a journalist one way or the other. I can gather that it’s what you think you want to do. And maybe you really do. But that’s not what I was asking.”
We sit down at a booth near the door. He scoots into the booth across from me, and he fits in here just as well as he did at the swanky Midtown bar where we first met.
“Do you like being in a place where no one knows who you are?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, I do. But even though I came here wanting to hide out, what I found was even better. If I hadn’t wanted to get away from everything, I might not have seen you again. But we weren’t talking about me. I want to know about you.”
His eyes lock onto mine and I struggle to catch my breath. Most of the time, when I’m out on dates with guys, they just want to talk about themselves.
Shit. This isn’t a date.
“So you like it here, then?”
“Stop trying to avoid my question.”
“I’m sorry, what was the question, again?”
I want to hide my face, but I can’t, so I do the next best thing: I start fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers on the table.
I know what he’s getting at. I can feel it in his eyes, in the magnetism that’s attracting me to him. He wants to know what I want in a man, but I don’t know if he’s talking long-term or just for one night. I know this guy couldn’t care less what my chosen career path is, or why I chose it, or a million other questions I’ve been asked on so many interviews at different papers in the tri-state area.
“The question was what you want. Not what you want to do. What you want. What you want at the end of the day, when you get home and take off your work clothes and sit down to dinner with the people you’ve chosen to make your life with. All of that other stuff is just the things we do to get to what we want at home, isn’t it?”
“This, coming from you? I thought you were married to your work, and recently divorced from all the young things on your precious island of Manhattan.”
He puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side slightly.
“Oh, you read that in a rag mag? That my engagement imploded because I’m obsessed with my work and with bedding every gorgeous woman in New York City? Those are all rumors, baby. I don’t know why they write those things about me.”
The corners of his sexy mouth and stubbly cheeks turn down into a slight frown.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“I’m not offended. I’m just a little bit confused. I mean, if you and I are going to work out, sweetheart, you shouldn’t be reading about my ex.”
I gasp at his words. The way he says sweetheart, it’s like it’s my name. Like he only calls me that. And even though I know he’s screwing around with me, his arrogance is astounding.
“I don’t even think I should have to defend myself against that. But you have to know that your reputation is not one for being a family man.”
As soon as I say it, I regret it. After reading about his life, about his parents’ divorce, I’m afraid that I might have hit a nerve with him.
But it doesn’t seem to phase him at all.
“Maybe meeting you will change that reputation, Molly.”
Again, so cocky and confident. I can’t help being turned on by it, even though I know I should bolt toward the exit to go home to curl up under the covers.
“Should we get a waitress to take our order?” I ask hurriedly, my eyes darting around the bar.
“No. I don’t wait for waitresses to get my order. I like to go up to the bar when I’m ready and get it right from the bartender himself. Make sure he’s doing it right.”
The way he says doing it right makes me feel a bit uneasy. A wash of heat cascades over my face and into my lap. This is not good.
Drew shoots me his signature smile. He has a smile that lights up his whole face and makes his eyes look like they’re grinning, and he has just the slightest hint of dimples covered up by that five-o’clock shadow I first noticed a few days ago.
Which, by now, is about a two-day shadow.
I guess he didn’t bring his shaving kit with him over the bridge to Brooklyn, and if he did, he certainly isn’t using it.
“Hey, where are you staying, exactly, anyway?”
“At your building. You know that.”
“No, I mean, where?”
“You know I can’t tell you that. This is only our second date. I have to protect my privacy. The last thing I need is you coming to my door and asking why I didn’t answer my phone. I’m here to work, you know. Look after the building.”
“I guess I’m going to have to knock on every single door until I find you, then.”
“I guess I better answer my phone when you call so you don’t wake the whole building. What are you having to drink, anyway?”
I grab a menu from a metal holder on the end of the table and quickly scan my options.
“Oh. Um, I guess I’ll have…”
“I got it. You don’t drink. Or let me guess. You always have so many guys buying you drinks that you don’t have to decide on your own what you want. You just have them handed to you.”
“The former,” I respond sarcastically.
“It’s fine if you want to hide the fact that you’ve had other guys buy you a drink before, but it’s not a big deal. I’m not the jealous type.”
“Okay, fine. It’s a little bit of both.”
“Well, we can’t have that. You should know what kind of drink you like. I assume you know what kind of men you like?”
He raises an eyebrow and looks at me through the dim, early evening light of the bar. There is something about him, something that makes me feel half at ease, and half totally giddy. It’s the oddest thing, having both of these feelings in exactly equal measure. Part of me wants to sit at this table with him until the sun sets and then until the sun rises again, and part of me wants to run the hell out of there.
I guess that means I kind of like him, which is the problem.
“Don’t answer. I think I already know what kind of men you like.”
He gets up from the table and I can’t help but notice his butt as he makes his way to the bar. This bar is such a different setting than the one where we met, but Drew blends in perfectly with both of them. It’s odd, almost, the way he shakes the hand of an older man sitting at the bar and watching the NBA playoffs, but it’s cute. The older man is alone, and looks happy as Drew introduces himself.
He makes small talk with the man for a moment before turning his hips and shoulders squarely to the bar to order our drinks. Again, my eyes linger on his butt for a second and I wonder for the hundredth time what he’s like in bed.
I haven’t been with many guys, and I’ve never had a one night stand. However, after carefully studying my girlfriends’ relationships, hook-ups, and whatever it is in between, and hearing about all the little details, I’ve been able to surmise that a guy like Drew Anderson is likely one of two things in bed: a beast with a big dick, or a totally average guy who likes to talk a big game.
There would only be one way for me to find out what camp he falls into, and I’m not sure I want to go there.
I cast my glance over to him again. If he looked great in a suit, I am just now really realizing he looks even better in his new duds: dark wash jeans, combat boots, and a white ribbed tank top that shows off the muscles in his chest and arms.
Now, with his back to me, I notice what a great body he really has. Seeing him on my floor might have made me want to hop onto him and see what else he could do down there, but now I’m really seeing him.
I’m a sucker for backs. Shoulders. Especially when they are muscular like Drew’s, perfectly chiseled. Just right, strong. Big enough to wrap around you perfectly, warm and safe.
I scold myself and tell myself not to go there. It’s not the right time. Not after
everything that went down with the ex. Not with the new job. I need to focus.
And say, for argument’s sake, that I were to have a fling. It would certainly not be with him. Not with a guy who is just going to go back to his real life after the storm passes. This is not the real him. This is not Drew Anderson’s real life. The panty-meltingly hot handyman is just a role he is playing. It doesn’t matter how convincing he is at the role, and it doesn’t matter how much I want it to be real. I’m not mixing business with pleasure, I’m not putting my heart out there, and I’m not letting Drew use me like a plaything while he bides his time.
He even said himself that he wanted to get away from everything. He meant that he wanted to get away from his real life. And I’m just not part of it. I never will be. He’s got his women and his stacks of money and his closet full of shoes and ties. I’ve seen the pictures. Despite all my best efforts not to look, I’ve seen his Instagram. There’s no place for me in there.
But why does he have to look so good?
He turns back to me and flashes that million-dollar smile, but I also notice that he doesn’t have any drinks in his hands.
“What, nothing here is up to your sophisticated taste level, fancy guy?”
“Come on. I knew you thought I was hot, but I didn’t think you thought I was a snob.”
“Maybe a little bit,” I say as I shrug my shoulders.
“So you admit I’m hot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You also didn’t not say it, baby”
“That’s not evidence of anything.”
“I thought your friend was the legal professional. And anyway, I know I’m not the kind of guy you like. You like nerdy guys.”
He isn’t completely wrong, but I’m surprised that he’s suggesting I like any guy other than him. I am a sucker for a guy in glasses, for a guy who has a brain and can do a full literary analysis of the latest fiction pieces in the New Yorker. That much really is true.
“I do like nerdy guys,” I confirm. “But I don’t discriminate.”
“I know. And you know, I used to be a big nerd. I can pull out my old glasses and graphing calculator and fuck you while I recite Pi to thirty digits, if you’d like.”
I feel my face blush and the tips of my ears get hot. His comment renders me absolutely speechless. I shouldn’t be. I’m an aspiring reporter. I should never be at a loss for words.
“So I am your type.” He slips his fingers between mine and my hands soften. I don’t even care that the table is making my hands sticky.
It sparks something inside me. Something that’s been dormant. The pads of my fingers feel soft and warm on his as he weaves his fingers through mine and places them back down on the table.
My heart is beating out of my chest and I swear Drew Anderson can hear it over the bass line of the classic rock song thumping out of the jukebox in the corner.
“Oh, here we are,” he says as he waves over the waitress coming toward our table.
His hands slip out of mine and I feel their absence on me, almost more than I felt their presence a moment ago. I’m already craving his touch again, but I’m relieved that I can take my hands away from his and pretend they were never there to begin with.
The waitress brings over a narrow, long wooden plank with a row of three small glasses filled with different shades of brown liquid, ranging from light amber to dark, chocolatey brown.
“What’s all this?” I ask, pushing the salt and pepper shakers aside and plunking my hands back down onto the table quickly.
“This is a beer flight,” he explains, gesturing along the row of glasses. “I thought you’d like it. You get to have a little bit of a few different things, and then, if you want, you can have more of whichever one you pick.”
I look at the glasses, skeptical but intrigued. I was never really one to drink beer. I’m more of a cheap white wine drinker. Even better if the wine comes in a box.
“Okay. I’m game for this.”
“Start on this end,” he says, indicating the glass with the lightest color liquid, “and work your way over.”
“Okay. I can do this.”
I’m just glad that Drew has given us something else we can do with our hands. Any more of his touch on me and I’m not sure I would be able to control myself.
I take the first glass and bring it tentatively to my lips. It has a mild, slightly sweet aroma, and as I sip it, a cool and refreshing sensation coats my tongue.
“Ohh! I like it!”
“You look like you like it. Okay, now try the next one.”
The next one is slightly darker, with a more heavy scent.
“This one is good too, but I prefer the first one. This one almost tastes like oats.”
“Okay. That doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think you’re going to like the next one, but try it anyway.”
I take the glass to my lips and sip it slowly. I don’t want to drink it too fast in case it tastes bad.
“Hm,” I say thoughtfully, putting the glass back down on the paddle.
“Not your favorite?” Drew asks.
“No. That one’s not my favorite. Too bitter.”
“That’s fine. I’ll have that one. You have the first one. We can share the middle one.”
“Sorry, but I don’t want to swap spit with someone I just met.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, grabbing the middle glass and shooting the liquid back quickly. He puts the glass down on the table and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “But I have a feeling that’s not all we’re going to be swapping.”
“An open house. I love these.”
We’re walking back to my apartment after finishing our beers, and my head is spinning. It’s not from the drinks, and it’s not because I’m on the first date - accidental date - I’ve been on in too long. It’s because I can’t get Drew’s words out of my head. I can’t shake the feeling of his hands on mine. His hands are an oxymoron. They’re too rough to belong to a man who sits in his cube of glass above the city, making deals and signing contracts. But they’re too perfect and smooth to belong to a man who does manual labor.
The sun is just setting over the city’s horizon of rooftops, painting the sky pink and blue behind the black outlines of the buildings, and his words take me out of my head and back to reality. I’m no longer lost in a daydream about the guy standing right next to me.
He starts up the stairs of the brownstone with “For Sale” and “Open House” signs perched in the windows.
“Aren’t you coming?” he asks, one foot on the top step, hovering between me and the house. He reaches his hand out to mine, as if to help me up the stairs.
“Um, I’m not really in the market to buy a house right now. And what do you need with a house in Brooklyn? This isn’t really your target for investments, is it?”
He hops down a few of the steps and sits on the bottom step.
“No, it’s not. But it would be fun just to check it out, right? Sometimes they have good snacks at these things. And,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him, “you can pretend to be someone else.”
I enter the foyer of the building after him. He puts his hands on the solid wooden handrail of the staircase and looks upstairs quietly, peeking around corners and taking his time.
“I wonder how many bedrooms it has, honey,” he says to me. “We need at least a three bedroom, if we want this to be a place we can grow into.”
I don’t know why, but I pretend to go along with his little game.
“Right. Little Timmy needs his own room, and then Samantha, and you never know what the future might hold after that.”
He winks at me and turns to walk down the hallway and into the kitchen.
“Nice work, here. Nice cabinets. Custom.”
A woman’s heels click from the other room and a slightly older, maybe mid-30s woman comes through the doorway and into the kitchen. She’s wearing a pantsuit and big gold hoop earrings, and has a dramatic mane of bl
onde hair.
Her look, her attitude, everything about her screams Brooklyn.
“It’s nice, right? The owners are moving to Florida, and they’re very motivated to sell.”
She puts her hand out to shake Drew’s.
“Older couple?” he asks, shaking the woman’s hand and looking from her to me, grinning.
“That’s right. Snowbirds, they were, up until now. Two kids, married with their own kids. You know, these older folks don’t want to be up here with the ice and cold in the winter. They’ve had enough of it.”
“This is a very nice property,” Drew says, folding his arms across his chest and making his way through the kitchen, around the center island with a large barn sink.
“You should see upstairs. The owners did all the work themselves, and they did a good job of it, too.”
I stand in the doorway opposite the broker and look around, peeking my head into the room. I don’t feel like I belong here. I’m sure I’ll never have enough money to buy a gorgeous place like this. It’s all old wood and new appliances, and way out of what my budget will be when I’m ready to settle down with a family.
“God, I’m so rude,” the broker says, striding over to me with confidence. “I’m Marie. It’s very nice to meet you.”
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“That’s my wife, Cindy,” Drew says as I’m about to offer my name.
He stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. His hands are warm and safe. Protective. Reassuring.
“Yes. I’m Cindy. And this is my...husband...”
“Chip,” he offers, giving my shoulders a little squeeze. “We’re kind of on the fence about Brooklyn. We’re from Pennsylvania ourselves, and we always wanted to live in New York, but we’re not sure about making the big move yet.”
“Well, I’m glad you both came to the open house today,” Marie says, grabbing a flier from the kitchen counter and handing it to me. The price shocks me. “Please take a look around, and let me know if you have any questions at all.”
I walk past her and Drew and into the dining room. I can imagine having a big family here. Two boys and a girl, a loving husband, a big bowl of my grandmother’s sauce and ziti in the middle of the table.
