“Oh?”
“Male dogs can be aggressive toward puppies. But now?” He patted Dexter who gazed up at him adoringly. “Now, he’s awesome. Okay. Would you like a drink before we head out?”
“Sure. A glass of wine?”
“I have red or white. Sorry, I’m not much of a wine connoisseur, even though I think the white may be a chardonnay?”
“A chardonnay would be perfect.”
Nash disappeared out of the room. Dexter wandered over to the edge of the pen and sniffed at Gretel, who beat her tail in greeting once more. I reached into the pen and picked up one of the puppies and sat down on the sofa. I recognized it as the one I was holding before.
“Hello, you,” I said as the puppy tried to lick my nose. For some reason, puppy slobber was an entirely different ballgame to me from dog slobber. I had no clue why. “Are you a girl? You look like you should be a girl.” I held her up and checked. “Yes, you’re a girl. Or at least, I think you are.”
She had a line of light brown fur, running from between her eyes down to her nose. In my opinion, she was easily the most adorable of the lot—and the competition was stiff.
The puppy squirmed all over me as I patted her. I looked down at the state of my once-pristine white skirt, now covered in dog fur and the odd smear. I let out a sigh. So much for looking sophisticated tonight. I smiled to myself; I had a feeling Nash simply wouldn’t care.
A moment later, he walked back into the room, holding a glass in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other. Taking in the current puppy situation, he placed my glass and his bottle on the coffee table in front of us.
“Let me help you out there,” Nash said as he plucked the puppy off me and put her in the fenced pen next to the sofa with her mother and siblings. I watched them, mesmerized. They were so happy, so excited by, well, everything. I stole a glance at Nash as he sat down on the sofa next to me.
Kind of the way I felt right now.
He handed me my glass, and I looked down at it, puzzled.
“Sorry, I don’t have any proper wine glasses.”
I smiled at him. “No worries.”
He held his beer bottle up. “Cheers.”
We clinked glasses, and I settled into the sofa.
With his free hand, Nash took mine in his and began to play with my fingers. “You know, I was a little nervous about bringing you here.”
“Why? You have a lovely place,” I said, looking around the room. There were floor-to-ceiling bookcases on either side of the fireplace, stacked with magazines, framed photos, and books, lots of books. Nash was a reader. Who knew? Every little thing I learned about him made him more and more my kind of guy.
“I didn’t mean the house. I meant the dogs.”
“I love dogs! Especially these ones. I mean, look at them.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I can see that, which is awesome. But there was that whole dog-slobber issue before, and I thought maybe—”
I shushed him with my finger, wishing he hadn’t mentioned it. “Let’s not go there again, okay?” I darted a look at Dexter, lying at Nash’s feet.
No, Marissa. Don’t even think about it.
“Good idea.”
“So, do I pass the test?” I asked, pushing any residual anxiety I had felt from my mind.
“Oh, yes.” He grinned at me and took another sip of his beer. I followed suit, taking an extra-large gulp of my wine. I was absolutely determined not to let my fear of commitment get in the way, and freaking out again was a surefire way of ruining this date—and any chance with Nash.
“But, you know what?” Nash continued. “If you hadn’t fallen for the dogs as you did, I don’t think I could see you again.”
“You couldn’t?”
He shook his head. “It’s a deal breaker for me. I’m a dog person.” He shrugged. “Whoever I date needs to be, too.”
“Well, I’m not sure I would describe myself as a ‘dog person,’” I replied, doing air quotes, “but I really like dogs. My brother and I begged our parents for one for years. We finally got one, a crazy Soft Coated Wheaten Terrier, when I was about nine.”
A broad grin spread across his face, and my breath caught in my throat. “You’re a dog person.”
I shrugged, holding his gaze. “I guess I am.”
He leaned in toward me and brushed his lips against mine. It was just as magical as all our kisses had been, and any lingering fear I may freak out again disappeared in a flash.
Once he pulled away from me, he had the goofiest look on his face. My smile broadened. We both took another sip of our drinks.
“So, what are we doing after this?” I asked, loving the feeling of closeness I had to this guy—a guy I had run away from only two short dates ago.
“I thought, what better way to spend an evening with a beautiful woman than on a picnic at Mission Bay.”
“A picnic?” I asked, taking a quick look down at my outfit, right down to my sky-high heels.
Nash followed my line of sight. “You can kick those off once we’re there, sit back, and relax. And I’ve got some cushions to sit on, all packed up and ready to go.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’ve thought of everything.”
Ten minutes and much puppy cuddling and dog patting later, with Dexter back in the kitchen and Gretel and her puppies safely tucked away in their pen, Nash drove us in his pickup truck to Mission Bay, a stunning white-sand beach in a well-heeled neighborhood, near the city’s aquarium.
We parked and took a short stroll in the warm summer’s evening to the large grassy area under the pohutukawas, New Zealand’s Christmas trees, settling on a spot near the art deco fountain. It was late enough that there were only a few children still playing in its water, and despite the bustle across the street at the cafés, bars, and restaurants, it was a wonderfully tranquil and romantic spot.
Nash pulled a blue and green checkered blanket out of the old-fashioned cane picnic basket he had brought, and I helped him lay it out, placing the oversized cushions at the back edge so we could sit and look out at the beach and the island of Rangitoto beyond.
My tummy grumbled as I looked at the cheese, the French stick of bread, the hummus, the sliced ham, and the chocolate-dipped strawberries in front of me.
“That looks amazing.”
“Dig in. Want another glass of wine? Well, it’s a ‘plastic’ of wine, but that doesn’t quite sound right, does it?”
“Sure, a ‘plastic’ of wine would be great.”
We sat together and ate, drank, and chatted, enjoying the increasingly orange glow of the evening sun. Being as far south as New Zealand is, the summer sun doesn’t set in Auckland until as late as quarter to nine, plenty of time to enjoy a leisurely picnic with a handsome and thoroughly swoon-worthy man, overlooking the water.
“Tell me, what do you do for a living?” I asked, picking one of the chocolate-dipped strawberries up in my hand. “I mean, I know you’re a builder, working on that site on Jervois Road, but what exactly do you do?”
“I’m the site manager. I oversee all the work, make sure no one’s being unsafe, that sort of thing.”
“So, you get to boss people around?”
He chuckled. “Some of the time, yeah. My dad’s the one who gets to do that all the time, though. He runs the business.”
“Oh?” I had noticed the “Campbell Construction” sign on his truck and had assumed it was Nash’s business.
“He’s the Campbell in ‘Campbell Construction.’ You know you’re sitting on the Campbell tartan?”
“I did not know that.” I ran my hand over the woolen blanket. “It’s nice. I like the blue.”
“Dad’s pretty keen on the whole Scottish roots thing. My mom is part Italian, so between the two of them, I get beaten about the head with traditions.”
“That’s great! Italian food and Scottish tartan.” I chuckled. “We don’t have any traditions in our family. Well, other than the usual Kiwi stuff of barbecues, jandals, and
refusing to believe it ever gets cold here.”
Right on cue, a cool breeze skimmed off the water and I shivered.
Nash reached over and rubbed my arm. “If I had a jacket, I’d give it to you.”
“No problem.” I shivered again. Now that the sun had almost set and the nearby fountain had begun its evening light show, my sleeveless shirt felt woefully inadequate.
“How about we pack this basket up and go for a drink at one of the places across the road?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
We packed the picnic basket and returned it to the car, walking along the road hand in hand. We found a bar, a little quieter than many, and ordered a couple of drinks. With no place free to sit, we stood together, so close we were almost touching. It felt like we were in a little bubble, the rest of the world carrying on, doing its own thing, as we reveled in one another’s company.
“I’ve been thinking about you and this singing thing,” Nash said.
“You have?”
“Remember how you told me you didn’t have the courage to do it?”
“Yes,” I replied cautiously.
“Well, I think you should go for it.”
I ran my finger around the top of my glass. “You do, huh?”
“Yes. I do. I think you should stand up and sing for an audience. Although, maybe I should hear you sing in the shower first, just to be sure.”
I slapped him playfully on the arm. “One day . . . maybe.”
He raised his eyebrows at me suggestively and my belly did a flip-flop. There was no denying I was very attracted to Nash. In fact, I would challenge most women not to be: he was tall, athletic, charming, and sweet. Plus, he looked like Jon Snow! But the last thing I wanted to do was to rush things with him.
As I looked into his eyes, something in my chest moved. “I’ll think about it.”
“Oh, come on! Sing something for me.”
I looked around at the busy bar. “Here?”
“Why not?”
I laughed. “You won’t be able to hear me for a start. Which, come to think of it, may not be a bad thing.”
“I bet you’ve got a beautiful voice.”
“You’re a total charmer, you know that?”
He shrugged. “I may be.”
The music changed to an upbeat song I recognized from the radio.
“I love this song!” Nash declared.
“Me, too.”
“Come, dance with me.” He took me by the hand and nodded over at the dance floor where a group of maybe a dozen people were dancing.
“Sure!” I placed my glass on the counter, and we made our way through the throngs to the dance floor. When we got there, Nash began to move his body to the music, and I watched him, my lips pressed together. Nash was a super-hot guy, good-looking, masculine, all the things I liked in a man. But could he dance? No, siree.
Nash dances like Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
I stifled a laugh. So as not to raise any questions, I began to dance too, although I found it hard to look at him with my giggles threatening to escape at any moment. I may not have been about to win Dancing with the Stars, but I didn’t look like Nash.
We danced until the music changed to a song I didn’t recognize. Fearing a potential return of the freak-out, I suggested we get a drink of water and talk some more. Luckily, Nash agreed, and I could feel the anxiety over his enthusiastic Carlton-esque dancing begin to dissipate.
“What’s Nash short for?” I asked, once we had our glasses of water and found a quieter spot to talk.
“Guess,” he replied, waggling his eyebrows.
“Err . . . Nashville?”
He shook his head.
“Nashton?” Another shake. I was running out of ideas. “Nashterton?” Okay, I was getting silly now.
“Is that even a name?”
“Err . . . how about Nasher?”
He let out a low, sexy laugh. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “That one sounds like something to do with teeth. I’ll put you out of your misery. It’s none of the above. It’s just Nash.”
“Well, then, ‘Just Nash,’ I’ve had a wonderful evening. Thank you.”
“Yeah, me too.” He placed his hand on my arm, leaned in, and kissed me. “What are you doing next Saturday?”
“Seeing you?” I hazarded.
His grin gave me all the response I needed. “I have an idea. I’ll text you with the details. Keep Saturday afternoon free.”
“All right.”
We walked to his car, and he drove me back to my apartment. Parked outside my building, I reached across and slipped my hand around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Once again, it was amazing, and once again, I swore I saw stars.
“Good night,” I said through the open window once I was out of the car. Putting a hunk of metal between me and the hunk in the truck felt like a very good move on my part.
“I’ll see you next weekend. That is, if you don’t happen to pass a certain construction site on Jervois Road between now and then.”
I beamed at him. “We’ll have to see about that.”
I turned and walked on legs that felt like jelly up the steps and into my apartment building. As I held the door open, I turned back and saw him sitting in his truck, watching me, that goofy grin on his handsome face once more.
I had made the right choice, and it looked like this Last First Date thing may work out perfectly, after all.
Chapter 9
As I walked up the stairs of my apartment building, I could still feel Nash’s lips on mine. It was the perfect end to the perfect evening with the perfect guy. How had I managed to find him, Bailey had asked? Right now, I had no idea, but I was deeply thankful I had. Not only was he everything I could hope for, he got me, meeting my commitment-phobia head on. Maybe Paige was right? Maybe there was one perfect guy out there for all of us, just waiting to be found.
And a small voice inside of me told me I’d found mine.
As I rounded the corner, I could hear a TV blaring from one of the apartments above. I walked up the final flight and realized with a shock the noise was coming from my own apartment, and not only that, there were loud voices added to the TV din.
I unlocked my front door and pushed the door open to be met with the sight of my brother and three other guys sprawled over my beautiful furniture, drinking and talking loudly over the top of a rugby match being played on the big screen TV.
I let the door slam behind me, but no one even noticed. They were too engrossed in their drunken banter—which completely lacked in wit, despite the fact they laughed at what each other said. I dropped my purse on the kitchen counter and walked over to them. Still unnoticed, I picked up the remote and switched the TV off. That got their attention. They all turned with a start to look at me.
“Oh, hey, sis! Everyone, this is my little sis,” Ryan slurred from his spot on the sofa—the very spot he was in when I had gone out on my date five hours ago. I wondered how he had managed to get all the takeout and collect three drunken friends without moving.
“What’s going on, Ryan?” I asked, my hands on my hips like I was Mom, scolding her naughty son. Which is exactly how I felt, only Ryan was my big brother and had always been Mr. Golden Child in that highly responsible and successful way firstborn offspring often are.
“Hanging with these guys,” he replied, gesturing to the motley collection of men currently messing up my once pristine living room. “Hey, do you want a drink? We’ve got beers, right, guys?”
“Yeah!” one of them replied with gusto. He was half sitting and half lying across one of my armchairs, his feet dangling down the side. His T-shirt didn’t quite cover his midriff, and I caught sight of his pale, hairy belly poking out the bottom.
I shot him a dirty look and returned my attention to my brother. “Ryan? A word?” I asked, my voice like steel.
“Sure. What is it?” he asked, taking another swig of his beer. Half of the drink miss
ed his mouth and instead ran down his chin and onto his T-shirt, leaving a growing wet patch across his chest. It was as disgusting as it sounded.
I looked around the room at the men. They all appeared to be as inebriated as Ryan; a large collection of empty bottles scattered across the floor. One of them looked like he might have nodded off to sleep, lounging on the sofa next to Ryan. There was even a pair of dirty socks slung across one of my lampshades. What had they been doing for socks to land there? I decided I didn’t want to know. I pursed my lips. “I’d like to speak to you alone, please.”
“Anything you have to say can be said in front of my crew, right, guys?” Ryan replied.
“Yeah!” Hairy Gut Guy repeated—until he looked up at me. “I mean, that’s fine with me.” He shot me a weak smile. I didn’t return it.
“All right, then. I want you all to leave. Now.”
“But, sis,” Ryan whined.
“No buts! Just do it!”
I really do sound like Mom.
“All right, guys, I guess we should call it a night,” Hairy Gut Guy said, shooting me an apologetic look. Maybe he thought by helping me out I wouldn’t kill him? I was still undecided.
“Thank you,” I said, mustering as much control as I could manage.
Finally, once the men had gone and it was just Ryan and me, filling the recycling bins with empty bottles and pizza boxes, I asked him what he had been thinking, bringing those gross men into my home.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“On what planet would I be happy that you and your he-men friends messed up my living room? I mean,” I added, pointing to a splotch of something unidentifiable on one of my armchairs, “look at this! It’s ruined.”
“I meant because I wasn’t just sitting around, feeling sorry for myself.”
I stood up straight and looked at him. “Oh.” I felt bad. Ryan had been in such a funk over his relationship breakup, it hadn’t occurred to me that this evening was some sort of progress for him. “Sorry.”
He slumped down onto one of the armchairs, landed on an empty bottle, pulled it out from underneath himself, and dropped it into the bin. He let out a sigh. “I know what you’re going to say.”
Three Last First Dates Page 9
