“Thanks,” I murmured, suddenly feeling my cheeks flush, taken aback by the kind gesture.
“Here.” He handed me the rose, sheepishly holding it out, eyes still focused downward, just like a five-year-old boy who’s offering the neighborhood girl the daisy he’s plucked from his mom’s flower bed.
Worried he would sense my red complexion, I took the rose and hastily began to dig through my handbag for no apparent reason. I muttered how he didn’t have to do that—it was really sweet of him, and the rose was beautiful, but he didn’t have to.
“I wanted to,” he said smoothly.
I halted the vain search in my bag—a stupid way to stall and bide time for the blushing to subside. I pointed with the rose on down the cobblestone lane. “Shall we? Walk? More?” I cleared my throat and awkwardly tucked some hair behind my ear, keeping my eyes focused on the silky folds of the perfect rose.
I could still feel my cheeks blushing, but Chad didn’t seem to notice or care when our eyes finally met and he said, “You know, all your talk about baking class got me craving something sweet.” He rocked slowly on his heels.
“Oh?” I said in a squeamish-sounding voice. I batted at the already-tucked-away piece of hair.
“Come on.” He placed a hand on my lower back, ushering us forward against the throngs of marketers. “There’s got to be a bakery around here somewhere.”
I stepped forward sprightly, escaping Chad’s touch to my back, becoming acutely aware that homesickness may not have been the only force at play. Paris, ever the charming city, had something up her sleeve. And nothing in the world could have prepared me for what that something was.
***
“You’re right, you’re right,” Chad said, holding up a hand. He tossed his head back in throaty laughter. “It’s not as cheesy when you’re in the company of chilled champagne.”
“See?” I held my flute of bubbly to my lips, and before taking another sip, said, “Told ya so.”
“Or in the company of someone who knows what she’s talking about.” He took a sip of his champagne.
I raised one eyebrow, glass still poised at my lips.
“Actually,” I blurted. I spun around and pressed my waist into the low railing of the bridge over the river Seine. “The Eiffel Tower is never cheesy. Ever!” I flashed him a quick smile. “But anything with champagne is always a little bit better.” I looked on at the Eiffel Tower—just as brilliant sparkling at night as standing plainly in the day.
“I don’t know about that.” Chad, too, leaned into the bridge. He placed both elbows on the ledge, hunkering down a bit. “I like you just fine, with or without champagne.”
I gave him a quirky look, head turned just a skosh towards him, and spluttered out, “Okay, now you’re cheesy.” I nervously pulled on my champagne, in a greedy way, gulping faster than is ever appropriate.
Chad and I’d spent the entire day together, and what was more surprising than that simple fact was that I’d actually enjoyed it.
Yes, we had our usual bickering and quirky moments of jest, but neither of us pushed each other’s buttons in a way that was too annoying—a way that made one of us concede in the name of crossing the line, walking away completely indignant. Chad was good and familiar company, and apparently I was for him, as well.
“Sophie,” Chad’s voice cut the silence of the sapphire-blue night.
I kept my eyes trained on the sparkles of the tower, still taking in tense sips-almost-gulps of champagne.
Feeling a warm hand settle on top of mine, I immediately finished off my champagne with a fast swallow and surreptitious hiccup. I removed my hand from under Chad’s and pressed it to my chest, the rushed intake of the bubbly beginning to seem like a stupid idea. My heart burned a little, my stomach felt swishy, and my head… Oh, my head. I pressed my hand to my forehead.
“Sophie? You okay?” He drew his face nearer, leaning forward over the bridge to meet my gaze.
I wagged my head in quick and short movements. “No, no. I’m fine.” I patted my chest, then dropped my hand back to the bridge’s railing. “Think I’ve just had a bit too much champagne, too fast.”
He chuckled. “Maybe you’re done for the night.”
I was relieved that he hadn’t tried to cup my hand again. And before I could open my eyes from a long and intense blink, he had my empty flute in his hand, telling me I’d reached my champagne limit for the evening.
I was about to say something, when he took both flutes in one hand, cautiously returning that free hand back to my own. This time I stared at it, overwhelmed by what was happening.
Like I said, a twinge of homesickness was to blame for why Chad and I were getting along so well—that just had to be the logical reason. Paris, what with her glittering Eiffel Tower at night and fine champagne on the river Seine, was altogether responsible for what happened next.
“Sophie?”
“Hmm?” I moaned, staring at our hands. To my surprise, I didn’t pull away. I just stared, wide-eyed, kind of feeling like I was having an out-of-body experience.
“I’m going to do what feels right,” came Chad’s husky voice. It pushed through the tiniest bit of fog I was beginning to feel from the three glasses of champagne I’d had over the course of the evening.
“What?” I whispered, turning slowly towards him.
I’d heard him clearly, I could see him clearly—standing mere inches from me. I was well aware of what was happening—of what was about to happen—and I just stood by. I practically welcomed it. I was only slightly tipsy and made genial by the bubbly; I wasn’t tanked and completely out of my mind. I knew what was going on. But why wasn’t I putting a stop to it?
I blinked long and hard again, not compelled to pull closer to Chad and see where the moment would take us, yet neither compelled to withdraw my hand and call it a night. What was happening?
His hand still gripping mine, he looked into my eyes and whispered, “I’m going to do what feels right. I’m going to kiss you, Sophie.”
“You are?”
He nodded, stepping closer. Our chests touched.
My head was swirling, thoughts racing a million miles a minute, and I was telling myself, “What are you thinking?”
But before I knew it, I was tangling my fingers in his, leaning into his strong, warm, welcoming chest, and our lips were locked in a sweet and subtle kiss.
“Oh god,” I whispered as our brief kiss concluded. I pressed a hand to my lips.
“Not good?” He furrowed his brow.
Breathless, I just moved my head from side to side in short, choppy movements. I didn’t know what I was thinking, what I was feeling, but whatever it was, it was welcome. It was somehow familiar, it was comforting…it was…
“Good?” he asked.
I nodded—short, heavy, insistent. Yes, it was good. Very good.
A small smile spread across his lips as he pulled me tight, pressing his moist lips to mine and parting them with a passionate force that can only be blamed on the romantic charm and influence of Paris. And, perhaps, a bit of bubbly, too.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m going to be completely honest here: It’s tough to get all excited about my date with Dean when Emily’ll be here in just two days. Late-night catch-up chats, loads of junk food, and rounds of laughter sound so much more appealing than a coffee date I really didn’t want to make in the first place. But, I promised my friends I’d “take a chance” so here I am, dressed in a flattering pair of dark blue jeans and the coral chiffon blouse I’d snagged when shopping with Claire—my date attire.
I hemmed and hawed over whether I should dress the ensemble down with a pair of black, discreet flats, or dress it up with some black pumps. High heels would be the definite option if I were looking to make a lasting impression on Dean—pull out all the sexy stops to get that second date. Pumps would say I was flattered, looking forward to the date…and perhaps another one in the near future. Flats, on the other hand, would say tha
t I did the best I could for this date—this date I really couldn’t care less about—and he should just count his lucky stars I didn’t show up in my neon pink tennis shoes with the tracksuit to match.
I spritz myself with two shots of my travel-sized bottle of Clinique Happy. The usual four shots would mean I was hoping to score; one shot is like the pair of flats. I figure two is like the middle-ground pumps.
Overall, with my hair pulled back in a tight ponytail and my lips glossed with a thin application of one of Clinique’s lower profile colors, my look matches my attitude. I’m not in an excited tizzy over the date, but I am positive, somewhat optimistic (however forced), and I am putting a decent, albeit pump-clad foot forward.
“All right, Sophie,” I say to myself as I turn around in the small café bathroom. I try to assess my rear in the mirror, but the mirror’s set too high.
“Whatevs,” I say with a resigned sigh. I blindly readjust the billows of the blouse, because they’re pluming too heavily in the back. “That’ll have to do.” I grab my simple black Coach clutch and emerge.
“You all ready?” Evelyn asks as I stroll into the kitchen.
“As ready as I can be having to get made up here at work.” I slip the clutch under my arm. “You sure you’ve got everything under control here?”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Evelyn reassures me as she removes a batch of black currant-vanilla cupcakes from the one functioning oven. “You go have a fun date.”
I take a quick look at my watch. Technically Dean should have arrived five minutes ago, and very well may have. However, even if he is out front waiting for me, a woman, as per the dating rules, has got to make an entrance.
“Okay,” I breathe. Fashionably late, I think as I lightly touch with a pinky the corners of my glossy, sticky lips. I give them one good smack, evenly smoothing out the lip gloss. “I guess I’m outta here.”
“Have fun!” Evelyn says in a syrupy tone, as if she’s the one about to embark on a date.
“Wish me luck.”
I run a hand through my long ponytail rather timidly as I turn around the kitchen corner. Instantly I spot Dean seated at one of the tables nearest the front counter.
“Hi, Sophie,” Dean says, all-smiles. “You look very nice.”
I look down at my ensemble and casually shrug. “Aw, thanks, but it’s nothing, really.”
I can’t quite read the sudden expression that overcomes his face—is he confused? Casting judgment? In disagreement?
But a second later, as I rapidly run my words through my mind, I mentally scold myself for sounding so ridiculously cavalier. Saying, “It’s nothing, really,” about my outfit is code for, “Our date is nothing, really. I didn’t dress up for this.”
“So, shall we?” Dean asks nevertheless, gesturing to the door. He doesn’t seem fazed by my choice of words. Rather, he’s standing here with a plastered smile.
“We shall,” I say with pep.
Be nice, enjoy the date, there’s nothing to be complaining about or sour over, Sophie, I think as I follow him out into the parking lot.
Dean and I’ve agreed to go to an oldie but a goodie coffee joint, Café Baudelaire, over in Belltown. It’s not too far my apartment, in fact. I used to go here all the time before I opened up shop and started living in a café.
Baudelaire’s has great coffee, and the cozy and quaint dive is far enough out of the way from Capitol Hill where The Cup and the Cake is located so that our date actually feels like a date and not some quick round-the-corner kind of thing. I may be wearing pumps and a nearly invisible lip gloss, hair done up in an understated ponytail, but Dean deserves some date-like attention. And, if I’m fair, the date could turn out to be spectacular. I just have to give it a try.
“You know,” Dean says as we bring our beverages to a table for two, “in all my café-scouting years, searching for somewhere to study, I have never tried this place.”
“That’s because The Cup and the Cake,” I say, then hastily lower my voice in a devilish way, “is the best café ever.” I wrap my hands around my warm mug and smile.
“Absolutely.”
“I do love this place.” I casually lean back in my seat and survey Café Baudelaire. It’s not as busy as The Cup and the Cake was when we left, but there are at least half-a-dozen tables filled, and the espresso machine doesn’t seem to stop hissing and whizzing.
“I’m sure going out to a coffee shop wasn’t exactly the smoothest of choices for a date,” Dean says, sounding abashed.
“No, it’s great. First dates should be casual.”
“Yeah,” he says in a far-off kind of way. He shifts his jaw from side to side, his eyes trained on his beverage.
“Is your coffee good?” I ask, trying to make conversation.
“It is. And yours?”
“Great.” I take a sip, slowly becoming rather uncomfortable with the awkward silence. I haven’t been on a first date in forever, and, judging by Dean’s inability to strike up random conversation, he may be dry on the dating scene as well.
“So how are classes going?” I ask at last. “How’s law school? I imagine it kicks ass, huh?”
When John was in law school he was never shy about telling me how difficult and demanding that three-year-extension to his undergraduate studies was. But, a handful of years later, John’s got a great position and is well-respected among the colleagues at his San Franciscan law firm. He’s not shy, either, to say that going to law school was the best choice he’s ever made. He gets to do what he’s passionate about, and after years of struggling to get my café up and running, I completely understand what he means.
Dean feels the same way, as it turns out. We finally get to talking all about how he feels compelled—really called, like it’s his life’s destiny and passion—to practice law. He wants to “help out the little guy,” he says, offering legal advice to those who can’t afford it, maybe even working with small business start-ups that need affordable legal help.
“I think it’s great that you’re going after what you really want, Dean,” I tell him. “Even if it’s a lot of work getting there.” I swipe at my bangs. “You think you want to stay and practice in Seattle after you graduate, pass the bar, and all that fun stuff?”
“Oh, definitely!” His response comes so fast I wonder for a second if I’d finished my sentence. “I totally see myself laying down roots here.” His face quickly turns aglow. “Getting established at a reputable firm, buying a home—maybe over in the Green Lake district or Phinney Ridge. Maybe Ballard, who knows?” He shrugs one arm, his fingers toying with the grip of his mug. “Settling down here, finding someone who wants to stay in Seattle…definitely on my radar.”
“You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”
“Hey, go after what you really want, right?” He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “And you? You see yourself staying in Seattle?”
“Well—” I begin, but he cuts me off.
“Silly question. Obviously you do. You’ve got your café here. This is home to you.”
“Well…” I’m a little taken aback by how quickly he assumed I planned on retaining my Seattleite card. “I don’t know for sure if I’ll stay here…forever.” I make a long, quizzical face. “I mean, who knows what the future holds, right? I like it here, yes. I consider it home, yes.”
Dean nods energetically, pausing abruptly to pull on his coffee.
“I’m originally from Santa Barbara,” I say, crossing my legs. I lean back farther into my chair. “I can’t say I see myself moving back there, but…you never know. For the foreseeable future, yes, it makes sense that I stay in Seattle with my café. I love it here. My friends are here. I’ve got a nice apartment. It’s great.” I uncross my legs and rest an arm on the table. “But talking of settling and all that, I guess I haven’t really given it that much thought.”
“Take-one-day-at-a-time perspective?” He nods as if he’s alighted on the answer.
“Not necessarily. I love
my organization and my planning.” I laugh lightly. “My friends would all tell you that I try to have everything under control, so no surprises can sneak up on me.”
“That’s great,” he says, eyes sparkling.
“But every now and then…” I stop, looking down into my half-drunk mug of coffee. “Every now and then it’s nice to give in to whimsy, fortuity, you know? I think it’d be fun.”
Dean doesn’t respond, so I carry on, saying, “I’ve got this friend, Emily.” A grin forces its way onto my face the moment I think about how Emily will be here in less than forty-eight hours. “She’s so free-spirited and open-minded. Influential, kind of. She’s the representative of fortuity if I’ve ever seen one.”
Dean sniffs in, eyes still trying to lock onto mine. Every now and then I meet his eyes, but mostly I’m focusing on my coffee.
“Anyway,” I say, shifting in my seat, “I know I need more risk-taking and fun in my life.” I dart my eyes up to his for a brief moment. He’s still looking at me, smiling. “I need to take a deep breath and relax, too.”
I pause, hoping he’ll say something. When he doesn’t I add, “I’m always trying to plan things. Maybe it’s time I…stop? Relax and see where life leads…” I blink a few times with a short nod of the head, then throw in, “I mean, obviously not stop all my planning and figuring things out.” I titter awkwardly. “Maybe just…sometimes give in…like Em… I don’t know. I’m babbling.”
“Well,” he says at last, extending a hand to me on the table. I stare unsettlingly at his opened palm. “Some things should be planned. Some risks should be taken.” He inches his hand closer, but I’m not sure what to do. Yes, he’s obviously waiting for me to slip my own into it, but that’s too much too fast.
“Take our date,” he says.
I bite down gently on my lower lip and meet his hard-fixed gaze. “Yeah?”
I don’t know what Dean was expecting from this date, but I didn’t expect more than chit-chat, a bit of getting-to-know-each-other-better conversation. That was about it. A few shared smiles and laughs, most likely not a kiss goodbye, and certainly not holding hands or talking about futures and settling down.
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 17
