“I guess I do. In what way though?”
“Let me put it this way. If you see a spade, is that all you see?”
I knit my brows together. “Err, I’m not sure what you mean.”
“If you’re in a gardening shed and you pick up a spade, is a spade all you see, or do you see what it represents: possibilities.”
I blink at him. Why are we now talking about gardening tools, and how the heck did our conversation about dessert take this turn for the weird?
I need to think fast. By the eager look on his face, I can tell this is some sort of test of my character or something, and I want to make a good impression on him. I channel my inner Larissa when I reply. “I guess I could see that a spade could help you realize your gardening vision. In that way, a spade is much more than a spade.”
He leans back in his seat, shaking his head, a broad smile on his handsome Bradley Cooper face. “You see? You totally get it. A spade is so much more than just a spade.”
I beam at him. This must mean I passed! “Exactly.”
He leans toward me and takes my hand in his once more. “Do you know what, Darcy?”
“What?”
“I think I want you to meet my horses.”
“You do?”
It’s not quite meeting the friends or the parents, but it’s a great start. And his horses are clearly important to him.
He strokes the back of my hand, which sends tingles shooting up my arm. “I know it’s pretty soon, what with tonight being our first official date and all, but there’s something really special about you, Darcy Evans. I want to share my passion with you.”
My heart expands, warming my chest. Yes! This is going so well! “That would be wonderful.”
“I’ve got a show jumping event coming up. Would you like to come see me compete?”
“I would love that. I adore horses.”
“And a spade is so much more than just a spade.”
I nod. We’re back to gardening tools? I thought we’d moved on to less, well, peculiar topics.
“Next Friday at the Windsor Equestrian Centre. I’ll get you some tickets so you can bring some friends.”
“Ooh, that sounds royal. That would be amazing. Thanks.”
“I’m sure I’ll have my best event ever, knowing you’re there to cheer me on.” He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it like an old-fashioned gentleman.
#Swoon.
“I bet you look fantastic in your equestrian outfit,” I say with a flush.
He gives a modest shrug. “I guess I look the part.”
I imagine him in a smart black jacket, tan riding pants, and black boots, sitting atop a stallion. He’s every inch the dashingly handsome gentleman who can sweep me off my feet. And yes, I know this isn’t very modern, independent, I-can-do-it-for-myself-thank-you-very-much of me, but sometimes, a girl simply wants to be swept off her feet by a hot guy on a horse, you know?
“This looks so good,” I say as the waitress delivers our desserts, my mouth watering at the sight of the layers of coffee-dipped ladyfingers and mascarpone cream topped with shaved chocolate.
“No birdseed or carrot sticks in sight.”
We grin at one another over our plates before Seth says, “Well, what are we waiting for? Dig in.”
I take my first mouthful and it’s just as delicious as it looks. “Mmm, this is so good.”
“I know, right? Did you know tiramisu means ‘cheer me up’ in Italian?”
“I did not know that.”
“Not that I need cheering up,” he says, his eyes dancing.
“Me neither.”
More grinning, more belly tingles, more unadulterated happiness. I must remind myself to kiss Erin and Sophie for finding me Seth.
“Tell me more about what you do. You mentioned you’re a personal assistant?”
“I sure am. It’s a great job. No two days are the same. I can do everything from helping negotiate a price for Peruvian wind chimes to consulting with my boss over what to wear on a red carpet.”
“That doesn’t sound like the sorts of things P.A.s do.”
“Well, I work for Larissa Monroe.”
“Is Larissa Monroe the Kiwi actress who was in that Hollywood movie? Blonde, perky, married to that famous dude.”
“Todd Milson?”
“That’s the one.”
“That’s Larissa, only now she’s focusing more on her wellness business.”
“Her wellness business?” He knits his brows together. It’s adorably cute. “As in all that hippy stuff like chia seeds and quinoa?”
I press my lips together at his pronunciation of the word “quinoa.” It’s totally cute that he doesn’t know how to pronounce it, and it makes me like him just that little touch more. I widen my eyes meaningfully. “Keen-wah is very good for you, you know,” I tease.
He tries the word out. “Keen-wah. Is that how you say it? It looks like it should be ‘quin-oh-ah.’” He shakes his head. “However you say it, give me a steak and fries any day of the week.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “I can’t argue with that.”
“So she has a business that sells quinoa?”
“Nicely said.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Actually, she sells a whole lot of stuff as well as consults and runs seminars. She’s written a book about the evils of sugar, too.”
He loads up his spoon with another mouthful of dessert. “How can this be evil?” he says before taking a bite.
“I know, right?”
We share another grin—this is becoming a habit—and continue to talk through the rest of dessert, an after-dinner drink at a cool bar down the road, and then outside my apartment building. As we stand on the sidewalk, he steps in closer to me and places his hands on my arms. Nervousness whooshes through me. This is it. The Moment. Our first-ever kiss.
“Thank you for tonight,” he says.
I look up into his eyes. “I had a really nice time.”
“Me, too. I’d really like to do it again sometime soon.”
“You’re getting me those tickets to your show jumping event, remember?”
“How could I forget?” he says with a shoulder lift. “It’ll be wonderful to introduce you to my passion.”
“Well, I love horses, and you did mention that you’ll be wearing a full equestrian outfit, so . . .” I trail off, a flirty smile on my face.
“So?” he asks with a laugh. “I’ll try to look extra good for you.”
“I’m not sure you’ll have to try that hard.”
He loops his arms around my waist and pulls me closer to him. Knowing we’re about to share that all-important first kiss, I close my eyes and tilt my head up. A second later, I feel his lips brush against mine, and I inhale his fresh scent. Our kiss is soft and sweet, and it leaves me wanting to kiss him a whole lot more.
He pulls back a little. “Darcy?”
“Mmm?”
“I see you.”
“Close your eyes like I’m doing,” I suggest helpfully as I pucker up to kiss him once more.
He halts my progress with his hands on my arms, and I pop my eyes open in surprise.
“No, that’s not the way I mean it. What I mean is, I see you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You see me.”
I’m right in front of you, man. I’m the girl you were kissing moments ago. Speaking of which, I’m kinda hoping we could get back to that part again sometime soon.
“That’s right. You’re not getting it. I. See. You.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “You know, as in the ‘I get you’ kind of way?”
Why didn’t he just say that, then? It would have been so much simpler.
“Oh, right. You see me.” I give him a knowing nod. “That’s, ah, that’s good to know.”
He waits expectantly. What am I supposed to say? I wrack my brain. This is beginning to feel like a conversation with Larissa—not that we’ve ever been in this precise position exactly,
but you get what I mean.
“I like that you see me, Seth. It makes me feel . . . visible.”
Did I really just say that?
“Exactly!” he almost shouts, making me jump back on my heels. “You get it. That’s all I want in a woman I date. I want her to know that I see her.”
“Well, you got it.”
“I hope you can see me, too,” he leads.
“Oh. Yes. Absolutely.”
His eyes are bright. “Say it.”
“Say it?”
“Say it.”
“Say ‘I see you?’”
“Say ‘I see you.’” He looks at me expectantly.
“Sure. Okay.” This is weird. Isn’t it? But if it’s what he needs to get him across the line so we can kiss again like normal people do at the end of a pretty darn fantastic first date, then so be it. I clear my throat. I only want to have to do this once. “Seth, I see you, too.”
He loops his arms around my waist once more and delivers a knee-weakening kiss, that whole conversation evaporating around us as we get caught up in the moment.
A perfect end to a perfect first date with a perfect, perfect guy.
Chapter 8
Forget about Cloud Nine, right now I’m a whole level up on Cloud Ten, luxuriating in my newfound feelings for Seth. He’s sweet, he’s fun, he’s super smart, and did I mention he’s super, super hot? Because oh, my, he so is.
Sure, the conversation took a detour down Weird Street a couple of times during the date, but spades and “seeing me” aside, it’s clear Seth is one of the good guys. The kind of guy we formed the No More Bad Dates Pact to find.
And now, it’s Sunday morning, which means it’s time to put on my big girl pants on and go meet Alex. At his place. Just the two of us. None of these things are good.
But I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do, so here I stand outside Alex’s large, red-brick building. It’s in a former industrial area that has clearly undergone serious gentrification. It’s smart and trendy as all heck—and so Alex.
I take a deep, steadying breath. I can do this. I can put my hatred for him aside and be professional about this. Because that’s what I am: a total professional. This is work. All I need to do is get the images and get out of there. Ten minutes ought to do it, fifteen tops. And when I look at it that way, it’s only ten minutes of my life. Then I can get on with enjoying my day off doing, well, anything but this.
With a clench of my teeth, I press the button for apartment number thirteen. Unlucky thirteen. Huh. That’s appropriate. I press the button again and wait. And wait. With no response, I press it one more time. Am I early? Late? Do I have the right apartment number? As I pull my phone out to check his address, a voice comes down the crackly line. “Hello?”
“Hey, Alex? It’s me, Darcy.”
“Oh, Darcy. Right.”
I draw my lips into a line. It’s as though he’s totally forgotten about this super important meeting, the meeting he originally suggested. So typical.
Any remnants of Cloud Ten I’ve been clinging to have now totally evaporated in the morning sun.
“I’ll let you in. Third floor. It’s a walk-up.”
A moment later, the buzzer sounds, and the door pops open. I trudge up the three flights of stairs with as much enthusiasm as someone walking the line to their imminent death. With each step, I roll the thought around in my head. Hmm. Electric chair versus Alex Walsh . . . Yup, it’s a close race.
I find him waiting beside his opened door. He’s dressed in a scruffy pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt with “The Ramones” written across his chest, his hair all messy like he just got out of bed. Which maybe he has? Whatever. I could care less. If he wants to lounge around in bed until all hours of the day and then throw on what clearly look like tattered, old clothes, then that’s his business.
“Alex,” I say.
“Darcy,” he replies in his usual way.
We’ve got a script, and we’re clearly both sticking with it.
He steps to the side, holding his door open. “Come on in.”
“Thank you,” I reply with as much enthusiasm as a kid invited to sit on the dentist’s chair. I step inside and he closes the door behind us. “Cup of coffee? I know I sure need one.”
“Oh, no thanks. I’ll just take a look at your catalog and then leave you to your day,” I say, catching my breath. Stomping up three flights of stairs sure can take it out of a girl.
“An Americano, right?” he says, completely ignoring what I said. “Even total professionals deserve a coffee once in a while,” he says, quoting the way I referred to myself last night.
I twist my mouth. “Sure. Why not.”
“See? That wasn’t so hard.”
As he busies himself in the kitchen, I take a quick look around. It’s a large and spacious loft apartment with hardwood floors and red Persian rugs. The walls are plain white, with no artwork whatsoever. Weird. You’d think someone into photography would have some of it on his walls, even if it’s not his own work.
And hang on a second. Isn’t this place a bit big and fancy for a barista? I’m sure he gets huge tips from all those adoring females I’ve spotted smiling and blushing around him at the café—really, some women have no taste—but the rent on this place must be a bomb! How could he possibly afford it?
“Why don’t you take a seat?” He gestures at a row of black leather barstools tucked neatly under the kitchen counter.
“Sure.”
“Strong black coffee good for you?” He pours coffee into two mugs and slides one across the granite counter to me.
“Actually, do you have any milk?”
“Milk? Sure.” He gets some from the refrigerator and pours it into my cup.
“And sugar?”
“Sugar, too?” he questions.
“Yes, but only if you’ve got sugar cubes, otherwise don’t bother.”
“No sugar cubes.”
“Oh. No sugar cubes,” I repeat. I look down at my coffee. “This will have to do, I guess.”
I know I’m being purposefully difficult, but it is Alex. He’d expect nothing less. And it’s the small victories, right? Even though I don’t actually take sugar in my coffee. Or milk, for that matter.
I take a sip. “You’re not wrong. This is strong. Late night out with Jason?” It’s not that I’m interested in his private life, of course. Just making conversation.
“Something like that.”
If he’s trying to be mysterious, it’s not going to work on me. I could care less about what he got up to last night. I know I had a nice time with Seth, a truly wonderful man. That’s all I care about.
“How did it go with the guy you had your friends interrogate before you’d go out with him?”
“Not interrogate. We vetted him. It’s different.”
He sips his coffee, his eyes still locked on mine. “How’s it different?”
It’s a good question, but I’m hardly going to tell him that. “It just is.”
“Good argument, Darcy. Have you considered going into politics someday?” The edges of his mouth curve up into a fully-fledged grin now. Oh, what I would give to be able to wipe that off his face.
Oooh, damn him and his . . . his . . . Alex-ness.
“Very funny, Alex. If I go into politics, you could start your own comedy routine.”
“Great idea. Maybe I will.”
“So, how about we look through those photos of yours? I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than sit around talking to me about my date last night.”
“Let’s finish our coffee first.”
Seriously? Why prolong the pain?
I take a swig of my coffee. It’s hot and burns my throat. “How long have you had this place?” I ask.
“Oh, about two years, give or take. I was in other countries most of the time, though. This is only the second time I’ve actually lived here.”
Two years? I glance around at the emptiness. In the three years since Erin
and I have shared an apartment, we’ve accumulated so much stuff, we’ve become like those tragic people who’ve got to go on decluttering shows just so they can walk down their hallways without bowling over stacks of junk. Marie Kondo could do a major number on our place.
“You haven’t got a lot of things, have you?” I say.
“I redecorated not that long ago.”
“More like undecorated, you mean.” I chortle and it comes out like a snort. I clear my throat and paste on an “I totally meant to do that” smile. “Let me guess. You went for the minimalist look.”
He shrugs. “I had stuff in here that wasn’t me anymore, I guess. You know, things happen, people change.”
It seems to me there’s more to it than that, but I let it slide. “Sure. Yeah.” I take another sip of my coffee. “This is a trendy area. The rent must be steep.”
He shrugs. “I bought the place.”
He owns it? On a barista’s salary? I’m itching to ask him how he could possibly have enough money to buy a place like this, but it’s rude to ask people questions like that, isn’t it? Instead, I simply nod and reply with “Great,” as though everyone I know has expensive homes and his is just another one.
“How do you like being back in Auckland?”
“It’s good. I needed to move on. Coming home felt like the right option.”
“Because—?” I lead.
He leans up against the counter and cradles his coffee cup in his hands. “You seem to want to know a lot about me today.” His eyes are on me, and it makes me want to squirm. Which I won’t do. No way. I wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction.
“I’m only making conversation. You were the one who wanted to stop for coffee.”
“Is it good coffee?”
“Yes,” I reply begrudgingly.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
It’s time to get down to business, to address the elephant in the room, as they say. “Alex, let’s forget the small talk, okay?”
“Sure.”
I place my hands on the counter in front of me, ready to launch into the speech I’d recited to myself in front of my mirror only an hour ago. I figured we should put our cards on the table upfront so we both know where we stand before we launch into working together. “Look. You and I both know we’re not exactly bosom buddies or anything, but I really think we can—” I taper off as I notice he’s arched one of his eyebrows, his lips pressed together. “What?” I say in frustration.
No More Terrible Dates Page 8
