by Belle Brooks
Arlie opens his mouth and leaves it open as though he’s a seal waiting for a fish treat. After a few seconds pass, he smacks his lips together and narrows his eyes. I’m not sure what’s happening.
“Go on. Put one of those in my pie hole, would ya?”
I steady my hand when he dips his chin again and opens his mouth.
“Don’t bite my fingers, you hear?” I edge in closer to his big white teeth, and he smiles right before he uses his lips to pull the prawn cracker from my fingertips.
I giggle in response.
“Best prawn chip ever. I’ll have another, thank you.”
I bat my hand into the air. “Get it yourself.”
He leans in, taking a chip from the basket. “Open up. I’ll repay the favour.”
I gulp. It’s not a soft-sounding gulp. It’s hard and easy to hear the noise.
“Relax,” he says, breathy.
I follow his request and part my teeth. I close my eyes. His finger skims my bottom lip, causing a tickling sensation which makes me shiver. I bite down softly and claim the cracker for myself. “Yum,” I moan as I spring my eyes open.
“Right? Best Chinese in town."
I nod, flustered, flushed, but oh-so satisfied.
The chatter of those ordering at the counter fills the quiet between us as we eat. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s very mellow and homey. I’ve only ever known this feeling with Chris, a few of my closest friends from back home in Queensland, and my family.
I relax into my seat opposite a man I don’t know with no fear of saying anything dumb anymore. There are no nerves steamrolling my gut or tying it in knots, and I’ve no sirens wailing in my head telling me to boycott immediately. I’m dressed to impress in a place where nobody goes to such effort with their appearance, but with Arlie, I feel like I’m in the company of a trusted and old friend.
“So, tell me something, Melinda. What do you do? Work? Daily stuff? Something?” Arlie takes the napkin tucked into his shirt and dabs the corners of his lips before scrunching it up and dumping it on his empty plate.
“I’m a folder, not a scruncher.” I tilt my head to the side and bat my eyelashes melodramatically as I take the napkin from my lap, dab the corners of my lips, and neatly fold it into four before resting it on my plate.
He stifles a laugh as he again narrows his eyes, only this time in a way that makes him appear more serious. “Well, that’s something we don’t have in common then, because I scrunch everything. I’m a born and bred scruncher. I love to scrunch.”
“Good to know. Folding is my jam.” I smile.
Arlie laughs. His laugh is the sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“So, tell me something, Arlie, what do you do? Work? Daily stuff? Anything you want to share?”
“Nice. I see what you did there. It takes some real talent to flip the questioning. Bravo.”
I cross one arm in front of my body and bow my head to my impressed audience of one.
“Is this your talent?”
I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Sure, sure. You’re the master of conversation flipping.”
“Arlie, are you now trying to divert the conversation so you can flip the question back to me?”
He pinches the material of his shirt just under each collarbone and pretends to straighten it at the same time as he lengthens his posture. “Not at all. Here goes: so, I’m a gym owner. I have a younger sister I call Boo because I used to scare the crap out of her as a child, all the flipping time, and she would scream BOO instead of screaming in horror like a normal person.” He tilts his head to the side and smirks as if he’s thinking of a time this happened. “My sister, Hazel, has a four-year-old daughter who is my most favourite, and may I mention the only niece I have in the entire world. Her name is Agatha, and yes, she was named after Agatha Christie because my sister had her when she was only seventeen. You see, throughout her pregnancy, she would hide in her room and read mystery and crime novels to pass the time. The name suits her, though, Agatha. She’s a miniature crime-solving detective if I’ve ever seen one. Smart little brat.” Arlie twitches his nose and turns his eyes upwards for a moment before rebounding his sight to mine. “My mother passed away when I was ten. My father is still alive, though. He raised Hazel and me alone for a long time until he met Tillie. Tillie’s nice, and we like her. My dad is a bloody brilliant dad.” Arlie twists his lips. “Okay. One more thing, I drive a truck, she’s my baby, my pride and joy, and together we go on many outdoorsy adventures.” There’s a long pause. “That’s about me. You?”
“Oh, okay. We’re both doing this. I see.”
He nods.
“One moment.” I take a mouthful of water and try to buy some time until I know what to say. “Okay, so, I’m a receptionist.” Do not tell him it’s for an escort service. “I’ve lived in Melbourne for just over two years, I think. Yeah, that’s about right. I’m originally from Queensland. I have one sister … older. Her name is Bridey. She’s not had any children yet, but she recently got married. Well, about four years ago now, actually, but she’s married, and I know she wants kids so maybe one day soon.” I cross my fingers. “My mother and father are both living. They were and are good to us. I have a best friend, Chris, who you met.”
“He’s a character that lad, yeah?”
“Oh, isn’t he ever? He’ll crack onto any guy who has ‘a good booty and all the looks’, as he puts it. I'm sorry he hit on you.”
“Nah, don’t be. I was flattered.” He pauses. “So, you think I have a good arse and some looks, hey?”
“I didn’t say that.” But hell, am I thinking it.
“I see. Keep going.”
“Umm. Chris is great to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” I rack my brain for other things to say. I bite down on my lip and then it hits me. The cat killer from tonight. What if Arlie hates cats too? Worse still, what if he mows them down? “I have a cat named Fletcher. He’s a needy old cat.” I wait with bated breath.
“There’s no way he’s needier than Baskins. That cat runs our shared house.”
“You like cats?”
“I love all animals. I have a dog, a dachshund, as well. His name is Miscuit, like biscuit, but with an M. They’re both my animals, but the three guys I live with treat them like they belong to them too.”
“Shared house?” I cock my eyebrows.
“Yeah. I like it. We’re training buddies. Football. Play on the same team. It’s what we’ve done since after we finished school. The company is amazing, and we have enough space to be really comfortable.”
“That’s pretty sweet.”
“I wouldn’t say sweet. Maybe manly.” A soft line forms in the centre of his forehead.
I laugh.
“So you live with your boyfriend and a cat. You’ve not mentioned the guy you’re with.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I’m going to have to tell Arlie I lied, but then what does that say about my character? Maybe I can tell him he died? No, that would look even worse, considering the timeframe. Plus, saying something of that nature in general is a bad thing to do. Karma—she’s a controlling bitch I need to avoid. Maybe I can tell him we broke up, but then he’ll think I know how to be in a relationship, which I don’t. Oh, what a mess.
“I don’t have a boyfriend. I lied.” Like ripping off a fucking Band-Aid. Fast. Get it off, and hope for the best for whatever lay underneath.
“I knew already. You’re not a convincing liar.”
I drop my chin and mumble, “I know.”
“So, you live with Chris?”
“No. It’s only me and Fletcher, my cat, in an apartment together.”
“Cool. What’s with the frock and look you've got going on tonight?” He waves his hand up and down in front of his chest.
“Oh, this little old thing? I wear clothes like this all the time.”
“Are you doing that lying thing again?”
“Yep!”
/>
Arlie shakes his head. “So what were you up to, if you don't mind me asking?”
“I had a blind date. It didn’t go very well.”
“Too bad.”
“It’s okay.”
“Sounds like the guy was an idiot, if you ask me.”
I know I’m blushing. I don’t need any mirrors to inspect my now flushed cheeks.
“Melinda, do you think it would be okay if I asked you for your number? I have to go in a minute.” Arlie glances at the watch wrapped to his wrist. “But I’d like to see you again. Maybe we can catch up sometime?”
Oh, my GOD! My mind’s screaming, bum dancing, and hyperventilating all at the same time. “Yeah. Cool. Whatevs.”
Why did I just speak like a punk teen?
Arlie laughs as he grabs his mobile phone from the table. “Do you want to punch the numbers in or should I?”
“I’ll do it,” I reply very quickly, probably too quickly.
When Arlie’s fingertips touch mine, I feel an instant connection. It’s not like sparks of electricity shoot through my body or fireworks explode in front of my eyes, like I read in books. It’s a calm, contented connection … a homey feeling.
I type my details into Arlie’s phone, taking a moment to stop and catch a glimpse of this god-like man who sits across from me. I need to know what his expression currently projects. Body language means so much more than words, and I’m hoping his body language can tell me where I stand right now.
Why has he asked for my number? Is it out of kindness, now that he knows I’ve had a lousy date, but he'll never call and I'll never see him again? Or is he being sincere?
Arlie’s eyes target his phone. His face speaks novels. He’s eager, maybe even a tad excited, and this sets an air of exhilaration to blossom within me.
“All done,” I say, passing his phone back.
“Thanks. I’ll give you a call sometime.”
“That’d be nice.”
“But I do need to go.”
“Okay.”
“Have a good night.” He stands.
“You too.” I watch his tattoo on his calf as he walks away. I hope him leaving isn’t the end of this because being around Arlie is like walking through a freshly mowed park on a warm summer afternoon after it’s rained: refreshing, comforting, fresh.
I’ve been on a date with a man who was all types of crazy only to end up on another date, not even an hour later, with a man who sets me at ease.
Fate had a plan for me tonight, and I witnessed it firsthand. Talk about a serendipitous moment when I needed one the most, and a chance of maybe finding my happily ever after.
Is Arlie going to be my happily ever after? I sure hope so.
Please, God, let him be mine. Please.
Chapter Nine
It’s been one week since I sat across from a guy in a Chinese restaurant and thought for one moment that there was a possibility, a chance, I’d found someone who liked me in the same way I liked him … romantically. I mean, what’s not to like about Arlie? He’s handsome, incredibly chilled, and socially adept. He seemed a little one-footed when asking for my number, but he asked, and as soon as the words left his mouth, I accepted his request as fast as lightning could obliviate the healthiest of trees. And maybe that is where I went wrong. Too eager and too desperate. I’ve not heard a peep from Arlie. There have been no texts, no phone calls—nada. Seven long days and nights have passed, and he hasn’t bothered to reach out in any way. I thought we had a connection, but maybe he was only being a gentleman, like I thought, and offering sympathy after an already botched blind date.
Chris and I’ve searched social media for the last week trying to find anyone who resembles the man who’s now plaguing my mind. At first, I didn’t think it would be hard to locate someone with such a name, but to my surprise, there are many Arlies out there in the big wide world. The only account which could be his is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. A profile picture of a dog, a dachshund, made me believe it must be his. The picture could have been of Miscuit, but then again, what does Miscuit even look like? Why didn’t I ask more questions? Like his last name, where he lives, where he hangs out, or who his friends are? Why didn’t I go super stalkerish and ask for his tax file number, bank account details, and credit card information? What gym do you own, Arlie? The gym thing should’ve been up there on the list of shit to discuss.
Blight, Arlie Blight, is the owner of the super-secure social media account. Could it be him?
What I should be asking myself now is how long does it take until you let someone go after you’ve enjoyed a lovely meal together and gotten your hopes up?
Ring, ring, ring.
“Welcome to Kit on High, you’re speaking with Mindy. How can I be of service?”
“Morning! Matthew Muller here. How are you, sweetie?”
I’m confused is what I want to say. “Very well, Mr Muller. Another booking?”
“Please! Oh, Mindy, I can’t get enough of your voice. Do you know how very sexy you sound?”
“Mr Muller, you’re always so sweet to me.” I pause. “Now, your booking, how can I help?” I need to steer this conversation back to business so I can go back to beating myself up.
“I’d like to see if I can book you. Are you interested?”
My head jerks back so far I almost lose the headset tucked behind my ears.
“Mindy. Are you there?”
“Um … yes, I am.”
“Well, how about a date? All expenses paid.”
“I’m sorry, but—” I stop speaking. Maybe I should consider a night as an escort with a successful and wealthy businessman who thinks my voice is super sexy. Sure, he hires escorts. It’s not the best quality to have, and I’m pretty sure no woman has such a quality listed on their picture-perfect man list, but Matthew Muller is a man who knows what he wants, and he goes after it. There’ll be no pussyfooting around with a man like him. Today, he wants me.
Live a little, Mindy. Walk on the wild side.
“Mindy, hello, can you hear me?”
Oh lord, what am I thinking? No, Mindy, you can’t accept his invitation of a date.
“Hello?” he says.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He hung up. The sound of a disconnected call beats through my head.
Slowly, I remove the headset. I throw it on the desk, leaning as far back into the chair as I can.
“Melinda, what happened?” Indie’s dark chocolate eyes zoom towards my face.
“You know what? Life. Life happened.”
“Yeah, life’s a bitch, and then you kick the bucket. We’ve all been there. What happened with the call?”
“Matthew Muller happened.”
“Lordy, have you seen that guy?”
I shake my head.
“Talk about a tall, dark, and handsome brew of deliciousness.” Indie sucks back pretend drool, then moans.
“You’ve seen him?”
“I have. You can easily look him up online, you know.” Indie pauses. “I would screw Matthew all day and night, and every day and every night for the rest of my life if given a chance.”
“Settle down there, horn dog.”
“Hang on. Let me show you. I have a picture of him in the flesh. There was a night about two months ago where Alice asked me to come out for drinks,” Indie says, sitting back at her desk. “We ran into Callie and Matthew at the casino. I about fell off my chair when I realised who he was.” She tugs her tote bag up on her lap before hanging her head between its handles, digging through her possessions. “Got it.” She waves her mobile phone in the air. “I tell you, trying to find my phone in this thing is hard, but I love that it can carry everything I like to keep on my person at all times, including my kitchen sink.” She giggles.
Indie’s bag falls to the floor. She holds her phone in both hands right in front of her face. “Oh,” she moans. “Matthew’s so smoking hot.” She’s practically drooling again when she holds her mobile out for me to
take. “Panty-soaking hot. I almost need to rub one out just looking at his picture again.”
“He can’t be that good looking.” I take the phone from her grip and glue my eyes to the screen. “Holy fuck!” I squeal like a piglet whose tail got stomped on. “Jesus, God, and the Mother Mary.”
“See? Told you.”
“And he hires escorts? Why? Why the hell does he do such a thing?”
“No. Matthew hires Callie and only Callie. He’s never hired any other escort, ever.”
“Really?”
“Alice tells me he has very particular tastes when it comes to what he likes in the bedroom.” Indie stands, dragging her chair close to mine. “We don’t want Kitty to overhear us.” She leans into me. “I’m not exactly sure what his bedroom needs are, but Alice told me if she could get one night with him under the covers she would die from the number of orgasms he’d be able to deliver her.”
I gulp at the same time as I squeeze my thighs together.
Indie laughs. “I saw that. Seriously, though, your bud is pulsating, isn’t it?”
I stifle an embarrassed giggle, cupping my hand to my mouth.
“Look at him. He’s a god. And his voice when you take his calls? Deep, smooth like melted milk chocolate.”
“And his voice matches his skin colour.” I never pictured him to have dark skin or to be so young.
“Right? And the manscaped five o’clock stubble on his chin gets the juices flowing even more.”
My eyes are bugging out of my head as I enlarge the photo of Callie and Matthew and shift the screen so half of Callie gets cut off, and Matthew becomes my only focus.
“Mouthwatering, clit-pulsing perfection,” Indie growls.
“Who has such skin, such dark hair, and such bright blue sparkling eyes? Is it even genetically possible?”
“Matthew Muller does. It appears it is.” Indie sighs. “I think I need to use the restroom,” she says, shifting uncomfortably in her chair before rising. I reach out my arm, grab her hand, and pull her back into a seated position.
“He asked me out,” I blurt out.
“Who?”
“Matthew. On the phone just now. The call I took.”
