"Did Helen come with you, Nate?" Raven's voice penetrates the fog that's settled over my brain and snaps me out of my thoughts.
Nathan's eyes break from mine, "She's at the bar," he says with a smirk that turns his already handsome face into something mischievous that makes me think...oh my. Um. No. I inwardly scold myself for the torrid thoughts running through my mind. That's not like me at all.
Clearing my throat, I unintentionally call attention to myself as my soon to be betrothed holds the door open to allow myself and Raven to walk into the lobby.
Now I'm squirming, uncomfortably aware of Nathan's presence beside me.
I expecting Raven to mention her no alcohol on the first date rule, make some disapproving face, or at least a "tsk tsk" at finding our other chaperon deep in the bowels of the steakhouse, seated at the U-shaped bar with a full liter mug of dark beer in her hand.
To my surprise, she's all smiles and warm greetings as the old lady's eyes light up with recognition and her arms wrap around Raven's neck.
"You're here!" Helen exclaims much more loudly than necessary, "And I missed the first impressions," she laughs when she sees me standing behind Raven with Nathan beside me, but she looks genuinely disappointed.
Helen is a familiar face and I finally feel myself relax a bit as she slides off her bar stool to give me the same greeting that Raven has barely managed to get herself out of.
"Oh girl!" She tells me while she hugs me, "It is so good to finally get to see you in person!" Helen abruptly releases me, steps back and grabs her beer off the bar, and gives me a long look up and down before her eyes dart toward Nathan, "So what do you think of our boy?" she asks with a wiggle of unkempt gray eyebrows.
Helen can only be described as a character. She's part of Nathan's team, along with his daughters, who have had the daunting task of deciding if I'm the right woman to become his next wife. She's got to be in her 80's, tiny at maybe 5' 1" and all of a 100 pounds or so, but there's nothing frail about the old woman. In fact, looking around the bar, I wouldn't be surprised if she can kick any man's ass in this place. Of course, I'd also expect her to fight dirty.
Before I can open my mouth to answer her with any of the polite responses that come to my mind, she has one arm around my waist, her beer firmly gripped in her other hand as she leads me across the floor behind Nathan and Raven as we're shown to our table.
"He's a sexy motherfucker, ain't he?" The blunt statement is whispered loudly next to my ear and even though nothing Helen says should catch me off guard by now, this does.
"Helen!" I laugh nervously and push her lightly with my shoulder.
"Oh pooh," she huffs, "you know it's true, look at you all blushing and stammering like a teenager." She holds me back for a second before she lets go of me so I can take a seat in the chair that Nathan is holding for me, " 'companionship' my ass, girl, you want that man."
I feel her hip crash against mine and I'm not at all surprised by the strength in her small body. She gives me a wink and a wicked grin with a shove toward Nathan and doesn't wait for him to push her chair in for her before she's seated at the table, whispering to Raven behind her upheld menu.
"Awkward, huh?"
I hear Nathan's deep baritone whispered in my direction.
Braving a glance at him over my own menu, our eyes dart to our companions and back to each other in a synchronized movement that feels like we've known each other much longer-- and much better-- than just the last few minutes.
"Just a little," I agree, feeling just a little bit more comfortable with him. At least we're in this together.
Nathan
As soon as Helen and I arrive at the restaurant, she announces she's headed for the bar. I try to keep the shock off my face as she leaves me standing at the hostess station to add our party to the waiting list.
It never occurred to me that Helen drank. Or that a cocktail would be her first order of business when we're here to meet my future wife, especially since Raven was pretty clear about her no alcohol on the first date rule when we were choosing a venue for the meeting.
Helen rolls her eyes at me when I remind her of that.
"That silly rule is for you and your bride," she informs me, "I'm 82 years old, if I want a beer I'll get a beer. What's the woman gonna do? Refuse to let you meet the girl?"
With that, my chaperon is off to get herself a beer. I watch Helen disappear in the crowded bar and give my name to the hostess. Then I stand by the door where I can watch who's coming and going through the window by the door.
Not that I'm anxious, of course.
I try to keep myself busy by opening the door for people as they come and go, wondering what to expect from the woman that will be accompanying Ms. Swann on our dinner date tonight.
Helen hasn't been any help at all. She loves teasing me about my decision to hire a match maker and won't tell me anything about Tiffany-- ahem, Mrs. Rowe-- other than I'm exactly what she needs.
A group of women approach the door and I have it open for them before they can reach for the brass handle. There's about 5 of them, all in their late 20s maybe, dolled up in short skirts and high heels for what I'm sure they're calling "girl's night out" but they sure look to me like they're hoping to go home with someone other than each other.
As if reading my mind, every one of them smiles up at me and says "thanks" a little too sweetly as they walk past me, then the last lady stops dead in front of me and gives me a long look from head to toe and back again in an absolutely shameless eyefuck that makes me uncomfortable.
"Why don't you stop waiting by the door and come buy me a drink?" She purrs at me.
My guess is that this isn't her first stop for the night, and seeing as how it's only 6:30 in the evening, I'm sure it's not her last one either.
"The only woman I'll be buying drinks for tonight is my fiance, ma'am," I tell her with a nod of my head and a polite smile. I think it's a good cross between being politely letting her know I'm not available and still not insulting her but her expression goes sour and I get a hrumph from her as she stomps toward her friends.
I overhear her telling them that I called her "ma'am" and I watch in confused amusement as the rest of her party turn to stare at me like they're discussing what kind of drink to order just to throw on me.
Obviously I'm out of practice with the ladies. Probably a good thing I went with the match maker then, I think as I step outside in order to avoid further blocking the door as well as to put a little distance between me and my new fan club.
Maybe it's just because that's my own story. And a pretty common story for most of the guys I know who are on their own at this point in their lives, and most of the woman I know too, for that matter.
Now I'm watching the parking lot, scanning for the woman that's become so familiar to me over the months, glad that Raven herself is going to be here tonight.
While I keep a lookout for Raven's red hair, I find myself trying to piece together an image of the woman she'll have with her based on the little information I have.
I know she's already been married, hence the "Mrs." No one's given me the particulars yet, Raven told me it was Tiffany's story to tell. I'm guessing she's divorced, probably in her mid to late 40s-- my age or a little older. I know her name, I know she runs a bookstore, and I know she doesn't have family of her own and that's why Raven's been dealing with me directly instead of my having to go through a ton of interviews with a team like Helen and my girls have been putting Tiffany through.
I roll the name around my mind and say it aloud to myself just for practice. It's a pretty name. Soft, feminine. I wonder if she'll look like a Tiffany?
The woman I have pictured doesn't strike me as a Tiffany.
Then I see Raven. She's walking toward me looking every bit the class act I was expecting as she reaches toward me with a genuine smile and a tight hug like we're old friends. Something about her confidence immediately puts me at ease and I fall into idle conversation with her easily
while I hold the door open for a couple of older ladies who giggle and flirt with me as they walk inside.
"You didn't need me at all," Raven laughs with a gesture toward the two women once the door closes behind them.
"Who knew all I had to do was stand down here at the Branding Iron and play doorman on a Saturday night?" I laugh with her.
Raven turns back toward the direction she came from and my eyes search the parking lot for the woman I'm here to meet, figuring she must have taken an extra moment to answer a call or run a comb through her hair one last time or whatever it is that women do that always seems to make them at least a few minutes late.
Instead, I notice Raven watching the antics of the young woman who's stopped at the end of the sidewalk to paw through her purse.
It takes me entirely too long to catch on.
I'd assumed the woman was just another local, here to catch up with girlfriends. She's not done up slutty like those other gals were but she made a hell of an effort at making sure she got noticed. Not that she needs the red dress or the matching lipstick to get noticed.
That girl is a natural beauty. The kind that gets a man's attention without even trying. She sure as hell had mine, my eyes were on her the whole time she was 6 paces behind Raven, right up till I had to take 'em off her to greet Raven.
Now that I see that the pretty brunette in the red dress has my match maker's attention too and once it sinks in that that's the girl we're waiting on, I don't know if I'm excited or scared as hell.
We wait while Tiffany looks through her purse. She looks like she's lost something and I want to help her find it but it's also plain as day that the girl is nervous as hell. Raven makes a sound beside me that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. When I turn my head, I see a smile on Raven's lips that tells me this is something she sees a lot of in her line of work.
Just when I'm about to go see if I can help, Tiffany-- Mrs. Rowe-- takes a visible breath and closes the few feet left between us.
Her hair is dark, pulled back and pinned at the nape of her neck with a few tendrils blowing around her face in the evening air. Her face is sweet and pretty with big, dark eyes rimmed in thick lashes that look so soft I want to reach out and run the tip of my finger over them.
She's a little shorter than average height for a woman, I'd guess about 5 foot 4 or so, and her body is-- my breath catches in my throat and I clear my throat as quietly as I can to avoid choking-- her body is all sweet curves taunting me in that red dress that hugs every line and begs me to do the same.
Mrs. Rowe is a good bit younger than I was expecting and looks exactly like a Tiffany-- she also looks like she's way out of my league.
Tiffany
By the time Helen finishes her beer I'm feeling much more relaxed. Maybe it's the easy way that Raven keeps the conversation moving, or laughing at Helen's tall tales till my face hurts, or maybe it's the way Nathan makes me feel like I'm the only woman in the entire restaurant.
I swear he hasn't noticed a single one of the woman who've eyed him as they pass our table, including the waitress who always seems to be there to refill his water glass and not mine.
He doesn't look his age. I knew he was in his 40's from talking to his daughters who are also part of his team along with Helen. I had something different in mind from talking to them, something more along the lines of what I'd asked Raven to find me.
An hour and a half after we sat down, I find myself back on the sidewalk in front of the steak house, not entirely sure how the evening has gone by so fast.
"Of course, that sounds great," I hear Raven saying to Helen as they move a few feet away from Nathan and I. I lose track of their conversation as they leave us to ourselves and suddenly the whole outdoors seems very claustrophobic as Nathan stands entirely too close to me.
"I had a nice time tonight," he tells me, managing to sound confident and shy at the same time. There's a dimple in his right cheek, just the smallest divot that appears when he smiles or, like now, when his jaw tightens nervously.
"Thanks, so did I," I mumble at the space somewhere between where my hands are holding the Styrofoam box containing my left over filet and mashed potatoes and what I think I counted as the fourth button on Nathan's dress shirt.
It's a nice shirt. Black. Well pressed. With flat little buttons in a sort of marbled gray and black finish. I wonder if they're plastic, or bone, or some sort of-- what are buttons on nice mens' dress shirts made of, I wonder?
I never thought about it much before. I wonder if they might be made out of some sort of sea shell or stone like agate? My hand itches to reach out and run the tip of my finger over the smooth disc so I concentrate on making sure I keep both hands securely on the box holding my left overs instead.
A crunching sound breaks the awkward silence that's settle between us and I almost yelp in surprise as I realize it came from the box in question.
OK. A little less securely then.
The problem is that those buttons are holding together two sides of a very nice shirt that looks like it's made out of what? Silk? It's heavier material than any of my silk blouses, but the weave of the material is certainly fine enough.
Are mens' shirts like sheets? Like, is Nathan's shirt some 3 thousand thread count Egyptian cotton?
At this point I really want to touch it.
No. I really want to touch him. I'm sure his shirt is very nice. The buttons are probably very smooth and the fabric is probably very soft with maybe just a hint of stiffness from a little starch to keep it so wrinkle free, but if I'm being completely honest with myself-- which I am not-- I want to know what his chest feels like under that 3rd button just above the one I have my eyes pinned on.
Nathan clears his throat softly and suddenly I'm even more aware of his presence and suddenly terrified of what's coming after the slight step he takes toward me.
We're already standing too close together as far as I'm concerned. Close enough that I wouldn't have to reach far at all to find out if his chest is as solid as it is broad or if his abs are as flat as I think they must be from the way his belt sits at his waist.
I feel his breath hit the top of my head and I know he's looking down at me while I stare-- well let's face it, I'm staring at his his...umm, belt, now. I refuse to acknowledge that my eyes might have wandered a little lower than the smooth black surface of the narrow belt threaded through the loops of a pair of dark denim jeans that fit him entirely too well for my comfort.
"So, Tiffany," his voice is deep and right now it's soft, a private volume for my ears alone, "I was thinking maybe we could continue the evening over coffee?"
His breath is warm on my forehead and I feel the little strands of hair that never stay in place for long when I try to pin back my stupid hair move along the side of my face as I force my eyes up to meet his.
He's standing really close. Close enough that if he wanted to kiss me all he'd have to do is bend down a tad.
That's a sobering thought that makes me step back a pace a little too quickly. I don't get an excuse to wear heels often and I'm out of practice. Naturally, I manage to stumble as I try to plant my foot and forget to account for the narrow spike that's holding my heel 3 inches above the sidewalk.
Nathan's hands are on me before I recover from my rookie move, grasping me at the waist and keeping me steady while I reel from embarrassment.
"You OK?"
He's both concerned and amused and I feel like an idiot.
"Yeah," I say, still trying to regain my bearings, "I just feel like an amateur."
I know I'm blushing, but the heat in my cheeks doesn't compare to the heat of his hands still pressed against my hips...or the heat that's pooling between my thighs.
Thank God we have chaperons.
Nathan laughs at my remark, making me feel less stupid but even more like an amateur-- like a teenage virgin on prom night, not sure how to walk in heels and equally unsure of how to handle the feel of a boy's hands on her.
"So how ab
out it?" Nathan asks, taking his hands off of me and shoving them in his front pockets quickly.
"Huh?" I try not to look visibly disappointed by the absence of his touch while also trying not to notice that he appears to feel a little like it's prom night too. His hands in his pockets do little to hide the growing bulge behind the zipper.
The man's in his 40's, certainly at that age it takes more than touching a girl's ass to give him a hard-on?
I mean, it's not like he really even touched my ass. Not exactly, more like just had his hands right on my waist. More like my hips. His hands are pretty big though, they definitely wrap all the way around my hips. Maybe his fingers touched my ass. Just the top. A little bit.
Oh who am I kidding? His fingers were totally on my ass.
I can still feel the light pressure of his finger tips.
Still. He's 40 something and it's not like I'm a super model.
"Coffee?" The nervousness that flooded him a moment ago has dissipated and he's all handsomeness and playful grin standing in front of me, anticipating my answer.
My head is nodding even though I haven't asked Raven and Helen if they're up for continuing the evening.
Nathan
This girl makes me feel like a bumbling teenager again.
Just when I thought I was finally the one in control, she had to jump away from me like I'm going to bite her. At least I was able to catch her before she went down.
Not that I'd keep her from going down if she wanted to, I think. There I go, acting like a teenager again.
My hands were on her too long. Not that there'd be anything but too long when it comes to touching Tiffany. I could swat a mosquito on her arm and it would still be enough to send electricity coursing through my body, straight to my dick.
It's been a long damn time since a girl got me hard this easy, that's for sure. Shoving my hands in my pockets is partly a ploy to hide the obvious from her and partly to keep me from letting my hands wander around those luscious hips of hers till her ass fills my palms and I have her body pulled tight against mine with my mouth on hers.
A Sensible Arrangement: A Modern Match-Maker Romance Page 4
