“How did that happen?” Josh picks up his cup again.
A wry grin spreads on my face. “That’s kind of a long story. But the gist is that I couldn’t wait to get away from big city life. So when it came time to apply to college, I pinned a United States map to my wall and threw a dart.”
He snorts into his coffee. “And it landed on Asheville?”
“Closer to Boone, actually. So I applied and got into Appalachian State. Moved here after graduation.” I clamp my lips shut after that. No way am I bringing Jared the Asshat into this conversation.
“And the pack of lady-friends?”
Another sip of latte chases the bitter taste of Jared’s memory from my mouth. “Mel’s actually from here, but Ava and Caitlin were college friends. I can’t say we all planned to move here together, but it worked out that way. The three of them are joining forces and opening their own business this fall. Wedding and event planning. Caitlin also designs gowns.”
Josh nods, his attention more focused than I’ve ever seen in a guy at this point in the dating game. “And you don’t have a hand in it?”
“I’m designing their boutique space in exchange for referrals and some well-placed business cards. Beyond that, what are friends for?”
A buzzing sound from my bag interrupts Josh’s reply. I scramble to unearth my phone, a needle of horror poking at me when I see the reminder flashing on my screen.
“Problem?” he asks, concern creeping into his voice.
The half-hour I granted to Josh has stretched to over forty-five minutes. I have a client meeting across town in thirty minutes, and it’ll take me fifteen to get there.
Shoving my phone back in my bag, I stand. “I’m sorry. I have an appointment. I’ll be late if I’m not in my car in five minutes or less.”
A flash of guilt crosses his face as he leaps up. “No, I’m sorry. You said you only had a half-hour to spare. I should’ve kept a better eye on the time.”
He rounds the table and helps me with my bag, then takes my elbow to guide me to the door. The touch should piss me off, but it’s too full of polite chivalry for me to get mad.
Maybe I’m not as jaded as I thought.
Either way, the thought of saying goodbye brings reluctance to my steps as we exit the coffee shop. “This was nice, though,” I manage.
Josh smiles down at me. “We could continue our conversation if you’d like. Saturday, over dinner?”
“I . . .”
Saturday is girls’ night out. It’s always girls’ night out, no exceptions.
“Check your schedule and let me know.” He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and takes out a business card. “That’s my cell. Text me if you’re good for Saturday. I’d like to pick you up, if it’s cool with you.”
I study the professional photo of Josh that takes up a third of the business card’s left-hand side. “I’ll let you know.”
“Excellent.” He takes my hand without asking and drops a quick kiss to the back of my fingers. “Hope to see you later, Red.”
Lifting my gaze, I stare at him as he turns and walks away. “My name’s Marissa!” I call after him.
He just waves over his shoulder, not bothering with a backward glance.
Chapter 5
First Date
I should throw Josh’s business card in the trash.
Instead, I lay on my back and watch the ceiling fan whirl above the bed, flicking the edge of his card with my thumbnail.
“What do you think?” I finally ask Caitlin.
Her voice comes across on speakerphone as clear as if she was sitting beside me. “We really don’t care if you want to skip girls’ night out this week. It’s not the end of the world.”
“You’re just saying that because you bet on us hooking up before the month is out.”
“Eh.” I imagine her shrug. “We didn’t put money on it.”
Chuckling, I sit up and adjust the position of my phone. “Seriously. Should I text him?”
“You don’t seem all that convinced that you even like him.”
Liking Josh doesn’t seem to be the issue, because that’s the one feeling I can identify. Everything else has thrown me for a total loop. “It’s . . . hard to explain.”
“Then don’t try.” She pauses and lets out a quiet hum. “You know what I think?”
I roll my eyes, even though she’s not here to see it. “That’s why I asked.”
Another hesitation on her end. “You need to throw your damn rules out the window.”
The rules are meant to protect me, my heart, my life. Caitlin, as the best of my three best friends, knows this well. And they’ve done a good job of it. If I let them go now, just because Josh has me twisted in knots, what sort of disaster will that spell in a week? In three? In a month or two when he decides he’s tired of me? When his business in Asheville ends and he has to return to his glorious home in the tropics?
Caitlin seems to sense the thoughts behind my silence. “All three of us saw him salivating over you the other night. He’s seriously into you, Marissa. And I think, if you’d let him, he might just do you some good. He’s not asking for a house key. Just a date.”
I don’t reply.
“Want me to Google him?” she asks.
It’s tempting. But on the off chance Josh and I do connect, I’d rather hear all the nitty gritty details from him. “Thanks. But I’ll pass for now.”
“And the date?”
I grit my teeth, purse my lips, and study his business card again. “I guess one date won’t hurt.”
“Isn’t it technically a second date?”
“If I’m going to forgo my rules, I get to keep count however I want.” Sighing, I pick up my phone and slide off the bed. “Okay. I’ll text him. But if it turns out to be a complete disaster, I want no shit from you three about it. Clear?”
“As far as I’m concerned, deal,” Caitlin says. “But as usual, I make no promises about Ava and Mel.”
We say our goodbyes, and I mutter to myself as I compose a text message to Josh that, hopefully, will sound flirty and lighthearted. I’m good for Saturday, if you still are. What were you thinking?
The response pings through almost instantly: Dinner and a movie? Somewhere casual.
Good thinking on his part. If our dinner conversation takes a nosedive, we won’t be stuck forcing small talk the rest of the night. A dark movie theater can hold a lot of distance, even if you’re sitting right beside someone.
On the other hand, moves can be made in a dark theater if one person thinks the date is going well.
I’ll have to risk it. Sounds like a plan. What time?
Six-thirty, he texts back. Shoot me your address so I can plug it into my GPS.
I’m not sure I’m quite ready for Josh to see me at home, in my little bubble of control. Fingers shaking, I send him my address, then add, Directions are pretty straightforward, but I’ll meet you at the end of my driveway. Hard to catch the turn.
There. He won’t even be able to see the house from the road. What I’ll do when he drops me off will be a different animal to wrestle, but I’ll deal with that when it comes.
Can’t wait. See you then, Red.
“Yeah. See you then,” I mutter to myself.
The last time I was this nervous about a date was two and a half years ago. I remember it was also a dinner-and-a-movie date, with a recent UNC-Asheville graduate named Lance whom I’d met at the gym. We were both young, I was still reeling from Jared’s disappearing act, and Lance, unfortunately, wasn’t bright enough to catch onto my general disinterest. Honestly, I can’t remember why I agreed to go out with him at all, except that the girls insisted it was time for me to move on. Or something along those lines.
My list of d
ating rules was born that night, when Lance dropped me off and tried to cop a feel along with his good night kiss.
This is different, though. I’m not the same stupid, heartbroken girl I was when Lance came to my door. And Josh . . . Well, let’s call it like it is. Josh knows what he wants and is willing to do what it takes to get it.
For some reason, right now what he wants is me.
Josh said casual when we made plans, and for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what to wear for our date. After nearly an hour of deliberation, I decide on slim-fitting khaki capris, a sky blue cotton tank top, and a lightweight white bolero sweater. Strappy wedge sandals complete the outfit, and will bring my five-foot-one height a little closer to five-foot-three. I recall barely coming up to his shoulder when we ran into each other on Wednesday. After fixing my makeup and hair, I head out, intending to march myself the quarter-mile down my driveway to the road.
The crunch of tires on gravel alerts me to an approaching vehicle just as I finish locking the front door. I slap on a smile and whirl around.
“Cute house,” Josh calls as he steps out of a little blue sports car that looks as attractive as he does. Casual attire for him means a dark green polo shirt and a pair of jeans that hang on his hips in a way that feels like a punch to the gut.
Okay, breathe. “I like to call it home.” Aware of how his eyes flick around the facade of the big Victorian farmhouse, I force myself to bound down the porch steps with exuberance. “I thought you were going to pick me up at the road.”
He circles to the passenger side of the car. “I was a few minutes early, so I figured I’d save you the walk. You’re really tucked back in here, aren’t you?”
“I like my privacy.” My heart skips when he opens the door for me.
“You aren’t worried about living out here alone?” Concern laces his voice and fills his eyes. “You’re not far from town, but still . . .”
I shrug. “My security system is top of the line. Includes motion detecting cameras, voice commands, and everything.”
To my relief, he drops the subject. After I slide into the passenger seat, he closes the door and returns to the driver’s side. A quick U-turn points us in the right direction, and soon we whip out of my driveway onto the road into town. Perhaps sensing my nerves, Josh doesn’t attempt to make small talk. The silence allows me to relax, to think about how close I should let him get before the evening’s over.
After pulling into a spot in a city parking garage near the Vance Memorial, we walk north to the Indian restaurant Josh has chosen for the dinner portion of our date. He orders a couple family-style dishes for us to share, then settles back to watch the mental ping-pong match going on in my head as I consider what track of conversation to lead us on.
“So tell me more about your business,” he suddenly says.
A guy hasn’t asked me about my business in . . . well, ever. Blinking, I fiddle with my fork. “Interior design is pretty straightforward. People hire me to pick out furniture, paint colors, and matching drapes. Sometimes I work with contractors on new construction, designing built-ins or the flow of a kitchen workspace. That sort of thing.”
He smiles. “That’s a canned answer. How’d you get started?”
“That’s a fun story.” Folding my hands in my lap, I return his smile. “I have my grandmother to thank for my first interior design job. I was—let’s see—about to be a sophomore in high school, I think. She had just moved into a retirement community and was hating the blasé decor her unit came with. My grandpa had just passed away, and I wanted to do something to cheer Grams up. My older sister happened to be home for a couple weeks that summer, and she helped me get everything organized. Color swatches, paint chips, furniture catalogs, the works.”
“Grams gave you free reign?”
“She had impeccable taste in decor, but didn’t have the energy anymore to do the shopping or the actual labor. I sat with her for hours, going through catalogs and home magazines. I had to buy a four-inch binder to hold all my notes before all was said and done.” I laugh at the memory. “My parents conspired to help me make the final reveal a surprise. I told her I didn’t want her staying at her unit while the painting was underway, so she camped out at our house for about a week. I brought in just about every friend and relative I could find to help.”
I sit back and close my eyes. “It was beautiful. We couldn’t veer too far from neutral tones for the paint, due to her community’s regulations. But everything else . . .”
“Describe it.” Josh’s voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s all the encouragement I need.
“I went with a pink-tinted cream for the walls, offset with brilliant white for the trim. Voile sheer curtains and scarf valances for the windows in light turquoise, the kind that flutter and float when you let in a breeze. Soft, cushy armchairs and a sofa, where Grams could take her afternoon nap, upholstered in light cream micro suede with chocolate-brown brocaded accent pillows. Light but sturdy accent tables painted white, covered with a brown and dark turquoise patterned fabric I found at a craft store and sewed into runners myself.” A sigh escapes as I remember. “Similar color scheme in the bedroom and bathroom. Lots of wall art depicting the gardens and landscapes Grams loved to study at the Fine Arts Museums in San Francisco, when she was young. And my finishing touch . . .”
Remembering it, I lapse into silence. When my parents brought Grams back after her sojourn at our house, the first thing she saw when she walked in was the bowl arrangement of red, pink, and white camellias on the coffee table. Her eyes had misted over just before she pulled me in for a hug. Everything else was sugar on top, as far as she was concerned.
I open my eyes.
Josh stares at me, eyebrows raised in expectation after I’ve left him hanging. “What’s your finishing touch?”
“Camellias, especially red varieties, were Grams’ favorite flower. Even though they were out of season, I scoured every greenhouse and worked with every florist I knew to gather enough forced blooms to make a huge arrangement for the living room. The expense killed my measly savings.” I lift my hands as if to say oh well. “The joy on Grams’ face when she saw them was totally worth it. So camellias became my calling card.”
Our dinner arrives, so we pause our conversation long enough to arrange the dishes and serve ourselves. After the waiter refills our water glasses, we dig in.
“I noticed you had some flowers integrated into your business logo,” Josh comments before taking his first bite.
My fork pauses in mid-stab. “I thought we weren’t Googling each other.”
He winks at me. “Nobody said anything about me not Googling you.”
I purse my lips, pissed because he’s right.
“So every time you finish a job for a client, you leave them an arrangement of camellias?” he continues, ignoring my expression.
“If they’re in season.” Resigned to my own oversight in terms of web search rules, I pile my fork with rice and tikka masala. “Camellias bloom over the winter and early spring, some varieties in the fall if you’re persistent. Usually in the summer I have to use peonies or hydrangea. But the two look similar enough that the only person who notices is me. There are a few other flowers I’ll substitute in a pinch, especially if the growing season has been poor.”
“Doesn’t that get pricey?”
I finish chewing and swallow. “Not since I started growing them in my own backyard.”
“A green thumb on top of everything else? I’m impressed, Red.” Josh gives an appreciative nod. “Based on your description of your grandmother’s apartment, I’d gladly hire you if I had a space in need of redecorating.”
“Do you think you could afford me?” I challenge.
He sets down his fork and leans forward. “Name your price.”
The glea
m in his eyes almost makes me give a quote for some sprawling bachelor pad I imagine he has tucked away somewhere. Maybe in St. Croix, where he said he’s from. But then I remember how he mentioned not really calling any place home, and I let a mask of disinterest fall over my face. “I don’t mix business and pleasure.”
“Neither do I.” He flashes a charming grin. “But I can tell you have a passion for what you do. And I love that you honor your grandmother with the camellias.”
I cock my head to one side. “Oh, really?”
He flattens one hand on his chest at the sardonic tone in my voice. “What? Have I not come across as a sentimental goof so far?”
“Not really,” I chuckle.
“Well then.” He digs in his pocket. “Let me remedy that.”
When he flips the smartphone in my direction, I’m met with the image of Josh bending under the weight of two adorable blond waifs. Both girls appear to be squealing with delight, while Josh has copped a tough-guy expression that makes me think of the way bodybuilders grunt and grimace when lifting weights.
I’d be a liar not to admit that my heart melts a little at the sight. “Your nieces, I assume?”
“Love them more than life itself,” he says, returning his phone to his pocket. “I anticipate the same level of roughhousing to occur with my nephew once he’s a little older. Neither his mother nor his nanny will let me do more than bounce him on my knee right now.”
That mental image is both endearing and hilarious. “So your family’s the type that hires nannies?”
“As needed. I reportedly chased off three different nannies before I was school age. At that point, my parents sort of gave up.” Josh helps himself to more naan. “My sister-in-law only has the nanny part-time. When the girls aren’t in school, they love helping with their little brother. Well, the younger one does. My oldest niece is almost fourteen. I’m sure you can imagine how well babysitting goes over with her.”
The One I'm With (A Sweet Somethings Novel Book 3) Page 4
