The Boy Friend

by Mika Jolie

I’m nervous as hell.

  On the outside, nothing gives a hint of the grapefruit-sized knot in my stomach. Dark-brown hair, slightly tousled on the top. Clean-shaven chiseled jaw. Button-down white oxford shirt. Dark wash jeans.

  Casual, but not in the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-how-I-look way.

  In less than a half-hour, Cori will be arriving for our date. My job tonight is to impress her. Convince her I’m the one. Her lobster. If I do that well, I’ll achieve my ultimate goal, which is becoming her boyfriend, and so-on.

  Hence, my pre-date jitters.

  My footsteps move swiftly into my bedroom. A quick time check tells me that, in about forty minutes, the braised short ribs will be ready. Which is perfect, gives us time to talk, have a glass a wine.

  Picking up the two top pillows, I fluff them before setting them back on the bed. Then I skim the bedroom. The last few days, I’ve been on the sloppy side. And since my cleaning crew isn’t due until next week, I left work early to tidy the house as much as I could.

  Not that I’m expecting Cori and I to end up in bed . . . okay, I want us to end up in bed, wrapped together in a pretzel position or something. I haven’t been able to think about anything else.

  But if that doesn’t happen, that’s fine too. That’s not the reason I asked Cori to have dinner with me.

  My main objective is to get my girl back. Sex is icing on the cake.

  Grabbing my phone, I swipe the screen, scroll to my dad’s contact, and press TALK. He answers right away.

  “Did you follow the directions step by step?”

  “To a tee,” I answer while padding down the hall. Right after Cori agreed to our date, I reached out to Dad for that recipe. The one he promised to give me when I found that special woman. Well, I gave him the very short version of how I fell for Cori. After I finished, not only did he gladly share it, the man spent about two hours shopping with me for all the ingredients.

  “I have a confession,” Dad is saying on the other end of the line.

  “You botched the recipe on purpose.” I enter the kitchen. The sweet aroma of onions, carrots, and celery tease my nostrils.

  Dad laughs. “Secretly, your mom and I always wished you and Cori would become more.”

  The worst kept secret ever. “You don’t say.”

  “So, Coriander, huh?”

  I smile at the excitement in my dad’s voice. “Yeah.”

  “Do we need to talk about the birds and the bees again?” he asks, clearly amused.

  I shake my head emphatically, to no one in particular, since I’m alone in my house. When I was fourteen, my dad sat on the edge of my bed and said to me: Always think with your head, not the one in your pants. And always wear a condom. Otherwise, you’ll walk around with a head that’s out of commission. You don’t want a head that’s out of commission, and you don’t want babies until you know love.

  “No need,” I answer. “You did a great job the first time.”

  “Son, your mom and I are happy it’s Cori.” I know he means it wholeheartedly. “Have fun tonight.”

  After we hang up, I head over to the living room.

  Last night, Lucas had a late meeting, and since his babysitter wasn’t available for a last-minute emergency, Emma and I spent some time together. For me, it’s not babysitting. I love that little girl. I pick up a few pieces of LEGO, fragments of fraying string, and tiny triangles of construction paper from the mosaic project we worked on together, then place them inside the art project container I keep just for when Uncle Dean comes to the rescue.

  I light a match and burn a few candles. So, I like candles. They make my place smell like an adult lives here, not some lazy-ass college kid. It’s a dude candle, okay? This scent, in particular, gives you the smell of pine burning in the distance, tea, and even a little leather.

  Picking up the remote, I click off the television playing in the background and replace it with Vampire Weekend, feel good music to help me get ready. Just what I need to take all the insane pressure off wooing a girl.

  Not just any girl. Coriander. The girl who stole my heart over twenty years ago.

  And just maybe, she’ll forgive all of my stupidity and give me a second chance.

  After arranging the white dinner plates on the table, I head to the bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. When the ding-dong of the doorbell announces Cori’s arrival. I give the room a once-over. Wide open space. Dark colors. Taupe sofa. Diplomat vintage leather chair. Clean, masculine lines, rough-hewn logs. My house screams a bachelor’s home.

  But today, it reflects romance. Two dozen pink carnations are striking against the backdrop of the stone wall. One of Cori’s favorites, “La Traviata,” now plays softly on the sound system. The burning candles light the room.

  I take a deep breath to calm my jangled nerves. Anxious thoughts breed anxious thoughts. Time to break the cycle. She said yes to a date. Now she’s here. This means she’s open to the idea of us, right?

  Not giving myself time to think, I open the door, and there stands Cori.

  My heart about stops for a minute, until I give myself a mental shake and help her out of her long, wool coat to reveal a navy, halter jumpsuit.

  When she walks past me to enter the house, I get an eye-catching view of her jumpsuit. The back is cut low and covered by the thick layers of her halter neck tie closure. I fight the urge to tug on the ties, releasing them for my pleasure.

  She stands in the middle of my living room, body language unsure, lips painted red, hair pulled back from her face in a slight updo style that makes her look like a beauty queen. Wait—red lips. That has to be a good sign. Brandon didn’t get red lipstick.

  “What have you done here?” She snaps me back to reality.

  I watch her scanning the room. “You don’t like?”

  She turns to me, her whiskey eyes roaming over me from head to toe, until her gaze rests on my face. See the slight shimmer, the hesitation. I can detect lust warring with caution, and when caution wins, I take it as a good sign. She wants me. But her dilemma is evident. By the way her hands are clasped together, she’s still a bit guarded.

  Patience has never been my virtue. But I’m in love.

  A changed man.

  Strong enough to chance being broken again. Preferably not. But willing to take the risk.

  Because of that, I ask, instead, “Wine?” and walk past her down the hall into the kitchen, slow enough for her to join me. Which she does. For a moment, we walk in silence. Our footsteps in synchronized beat. “You look gorgeous, Coriander.”

  “Thanks.” She smooths her hands over the front of her pantsuit, then her eyes scan up and down my frame. “So do you. Then again, you’re quite easy on the eyes.”

  The compliment makes me smile. “You think I’m easy on the eyes?”

  She nods.

  “How come you never told me?”

  “You already have a mammoth ego.”

  I laugh. “I prefer to say I never went through the phase where I questioned my self-esteem.” We enter the kitchen together. I check the timer, then grab her favorite Pinot Noir. As I unscrew it, she inhales the aroma of the braised ribs. I swear, I heard her stomach growl.

  “That smells delicious, Dean.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been cooking for the last two and half hours.”

  “Wow. I feel special.”

  Our gazes lock and hold for several heartbeats. I’m sure, on the surface, I appear calm and unflappable, but there’s an underlying tension in my body. “Let’s get one thing out of the way,” I say in a husky voice.

  “What’s that?”

  She licks her bottom lip. My heart trips. As much as I’m dying to kiss her, I refrain. Instead, I caress a strand of loose hair from her temple, tucking it behind her ear. Eyes still locked on hers, I say, “I’m in love with you.”

  Silence ensues. Cori’s facial expression is closed.

  Not what I expected. “Say something, Moonchild.”

  “You don’t know wha
t love is.”

  “Maybe not fully,” I admit, holding her gaze. “But I know it’s messy, scary, and the most wonderful fucking feeling I’ve ever felt in my life.”

  “The tug and pull game has never been my thing,” she says after a long minute.

  I trail a finger down the curve of her face, down her throat, to her bare shoulder, feeling her shiver under my touch. “This isn’t a game.”

  Rich, golden brown eyes appraise my face for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is accusing. “You flaked on me . . . twice.”

  “I’m an idiot.” There’s an awkward silence I have no idea how to broach. “This is where you’re supposed to say, but also caring,” I joke.

  She smiles at me, and then drags her teeth over her lower lip as she appears to contemplate my words.

  Fuck. I want to do that. And much more.

  “You are caring, but” –she steps out of my grasp –“Dean, I don’t know.”

  As she walks past me, I reach for her hand, lace our fingers together, and stop her mid-stride. “Do you trust me?”

  “I’m here.”

  True. But she didn’t answer the question. I’ve learned a few things in my thirty years. One of them is that forgiving isn’t the hard part, trusting again is the challenge. “I need you to trust me again.”

  After the longest minute, she says, “I trust you.”

  “Can you keep an open mind?”

  “About?”

  “Us.” The timer dings. Neither of us move. “I need to know you’ll do that.”

  Finally, she nods and whispers, “Okay.” A wave of relief washes over me, until she says, “But—”

  “No buts,” I say, half-teasing.

  She lets out a sigh. “Our friendship . . .”

  Bringing her hand to my mouth, I brush my lips against the back of it. “This is where our friendship and our love meet, Coriander.”

  She shakes her head as if to clear it from any temptation to let go her reservations. “Let me decide how to proceed.” She pauses. The silence stretches, until she speaks. “If I want more, I’ll initiate. You need to give me that, because you and I are greater than everything else around us.”

  “Alright.” I nod, understanding the significance of her statement. We’ve known each other all of our lives. Our worlds are forever connected by family and friends. She owns my heart. “Ball’s in your court. It’s your move to make.”

  “Love is friendship set on fire.”

  PART WAY INTO THE EVENING, we’re in the dining room, eating dinner. The mood is relaxed. Conversation is easy. There’s a battle inside me. I want to kiss Cori, but I don’t want to come off as pushy or overbearing. Also, I don’t want to ruin the atmosphere.

  “Remember when you stood in as my model?” she asks after a taking a sip of her wine.

  “When I was made to feel cheap?”

  She grins. “You loved it.”

  “Confession time.”

  She arches a brow. “Should I be scared?”

  “I kept looking at your ass the whole time,” I admit. “I had to keep reciting the periodic table.”

  She laughs and it makes my heart smile.

  “Did it work?”

  I shrug. “Thank goodness I still have a love-hate relationship with the periodic table.” I take a forkful of the truffle fries I made, just for her, and place them in her mouth. After she swallows, she releases a satisfying sigh. My dick stirs. I shift in my chair.

  The periodic table contains one hundred and eighteen elements of chemistry. Chemical element: Actinium. Symbol: AC: Atomic number eighty-nine.

  There. Much better.

  If anything is going to happen, she has to make the move. By the way, I can probably list all the elements in alphabetical order. Not showing off. I just really hated chemistry.

  “You were saying about my modeling days?” I ask Cori.

  “Well, you were a hit. Some of the women have asked if you’ll stand in again.”

  “If you ever need me for a night, just say the word.” Her eyes drop to my lips and linger a minute, before she reaches for her wineglass. Immediately, I grab the bottle and refill her glass. “That was not meant the way it came out. I’m trying to behave.”

  “I know.” She takes a sip of her wine, then gives me one of those smiles that make my heart trip. “So, what is it you want from me, now that you’ve confessed your love?”

  “Are we discussing us?” I ask, needing to be sure she’s ready to explore us as a couple.

  She appears to consider my question before saying, “The possibility, anyway.”

  “I want the whole thing with you. A relationship.” I don’t look away as I say this. “The boyfriend and girlfriend kind, where we snugglefuck.”

  She clears her throat. “Snugglefuck?”

  “Napping, snuggling, followed by passionate or rough sex,” I explain.

  She purses her lips, drawing my attention to them, all shiny and glossy with a dash of red.

  “Basically, I want to always be by your side, or under you, or on top of you.”

  “I think I got the picture,” she says and brushes a swath of hair from her forehead.

  But I don’t think she does. This isn’t about only sex . . . although it might sound that way. It’s just the way my mind works. Elbows on the table, I lean forward, holding her gaze. “I want you to move in with me.”

  “That’s a lot.” Her brows are furrowed as she pushes her fork around her plate. “And fast.”

  A note of pain peppers her voice. I engage her eyes with mine, forcing her to see everything that’s inside me. “Cori,” I start, volumes of regret making my voice hoarse. “I know what I want, and it’s you.”

  Nothing but a loaded silence.

  Earlier, I promised I wouldn’t push. Willing to give her all the time in the world . . . Well, tonight anyway. If my attempt fails, I am willing to wait for her for as long as forever, even though I hate waiting. But this is Cori we’re talking about.

  My forever.

  My best friend.

  I have the rest of my life to prove my love. “How’re your students?” I ask, changing the subject to something safer. For the rest of the meal, our conversation flows with ease.

  After dinner, and a bottle of wine later, we move to the living room. Other than the sound system playing softly in the background, the room is quiet. My head is filled with questions. Is she nervous? Strung out? Bored? Why won’t she look at me?

  Then something occurs to me. Her online profile. What if she met some douche during the last few weeks?

  “How’s the online dating going?” I ask and hold my breath.

  “I took down my profile.” Cori walks over to the carnations and runs her fingers along the petals. “Carnations are my favorite.”

  “I know. These are for you.”

  She spins to face me. For the briefest second, her gaze meets mine. Her eyes are sparkling with a million small fires. Then she breaks the contact and focuses her attention on my collection of books in the black salvaged-wood cabinet. A way to shut me out. Too late. I caught the carnal desire burning in her eyes.

  She wants me.

  “There are at least two dozen carnations,” she notes.

  “All yours.”

  She looks at me, shakes her head, but I can tell she’s smiling on the inside.

  “Let’s talk about your online dating.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why did you close your account?” I ask, pulse racing.

  “I don’t think I’ll find my lobster online.”

  Hope beats in my chest like a heartbeat. “No?”

  “No,” she confirms.

  My heart pumps a little faster. I am flying high in the sky, devoid of problems and able to leap small buildings in a single bound . . . no, wait, that is Superman. Must stay focused. “I hear lobsters mate for life.”

  This makes her smile. “I hear female lobsters are very aggressive.”

  Need and
hunger rolls through me. The way her eyes have darkened tells me the same need is racing through her. “Are you having fun with me tonight?”

  “I always have a good time with you.”

  “Tonight is different.”

  She doesn’t answer, but the silence between us is easy. “Those Magic Changes” starts playing. Three long strides bring me in front of her. I run my finger along the curve of her cheekbone. “Dance with me.”

  “Last time we danced, your feet were my stomping ground.”

  “I love being your stomping ground.”

  She laughs, and I can feel whatever reservations she has leave with the rolling of her shoulders. The muscles around my heart relax. I croon along, but in my Danny Zuko voice. A slow smile creeps across her face. My hand drifts to her hip, settling there, and pulling her closer. She inhales sharply as her arm reaches up and tangles around my neck. Then she’s against my chest, chiseled to perfection.

  For the next two minutes, we dance. Her face buries in my neck so deep that her lips brush against my skin. A faint inhale fills my senses with her essence—lavender and seashells. It’s erotic and comforting at the same time. I close my eyes and let the tempo of our bodies fall into a trance.

  “Dean.” She runs her fingers down my spine, pulling me closer, until there’s no space left between us, and I can feel the beating of her heart against my chest.

  My dick immediately stands at attention, poking her through my jeans. I want to kiss her bare shoulders, touch her, feel her. But I can’t. She has to initiate. I gave her my word. Brushing my thumb on the exposed skin of her back, I say, “Ignore that tent in my pants.”

  “Hard to ignore.” Her voice is soft and warm against my neck.

  “Did you know I can recite the periodic table in alphabetical order?” She tips her chin up to meet my gaze. I soak in her beauty, the slight tilt of her nose, the fullness of her lips. Damn it. Control is slipping. “Cori,” I warn, voice low.

  “Do you feel that?” she asks, and my heart somersaults, because I’m feeling too much.

  “Other than what’s poking you through my jeans?”

  “Yes,” she says, cheeks flushed.

  “What are you feeling, Cori?” I’m dying here. This is not merely a dance. Her body firmly pressing against mine is communicating my deepest feelings, wordlessly telling me she wants me. She wants us.