Love at First Fight

by Carrie Aarons

  Obviously, that kiss was …

  Stupendous. Jaw-dropping. The best kiss, let alone sex, I’ve ever had, and we weren’t even naked. If that’s how the man kisses, I can only imagine the things he’ll make me feel in bed.

  But it was more than that. I’ve had this stupid, girlish attraction to Smith for a while, but never paid it more mind. He couldn’t possibly feel anything for me, so why dwell? That’s what I had thought. Then, before he even admitted to watching me the entire year I was with Justin, he kissed me and it changed something in my brain.

  The feelings I have for Smith now are more than just a surface-level crush. I can’t explain it, but the way in which he adored my mouth, poured his emotions out without so much as a word … a switch flipped in me. I looked at him differently, and the way my heart rate increased when I thought about him now isn’t the same as an innocent flirtation.

  I could really see something happening between us.

  And a month fresh off a breakup with a guy I thought I’d marry … I was terrified of feeling that.

  “I just seated a couple in your section, they requested you.” Maria, the hostess at Aja, hustles by me with menus in her hands.

  It’s another Thursday night at the restaurant, and we’ve been swamped with diners. My feet are killing me, even in my ugly but comfortable black sneakers, and I’m starting to develop a pounding in my temples. Most nights, I don’t mind being a waitress; it’s great money, and the conversation is usually interesting with a couple of tables. But tonight, I’m not feeling it at all.

  “Thanks,” I tell Maria as I pick up drinks from the bar to deliver to another one of my tables.

  After checking on my tables and making sure they don’t need anything, I swoop around to the new couple.

  And stop short when I spot who it is.

  A busboy nearly slams into my back, and I apologize profusely, turning heads, including his.

  My feet are wobbly as they walk up to the table where Smith sits opposite a gorgeous blond woman who looks like she’s just come out of the courtroom arguing a case. Her sleek white skirt suit is one of those expensive, fashionable ones, the kind you wear a silk night shirt underneath and still manage to make it look professional. Which she is. Her features are fox-like, and she’s the kind of woman you stare at without realizing you’re even doing it.

  The twisting knots of jealousy in my stomach make me want to both flee into the kitchen, and slap him in the face. He kissed my socks off only four days ago, and now he has the balls to show up at my job and flaunt a date in my face? Is this his idea of giving me space? I told him to basically stop with the immature bullshit, because he should have copped to having feelings for me a long time ago, and this is his plan to … what? Woo me?

  It kills me that it’s kind of working, because I wouldn’t be surprised to see my cheeks twenty shades of green right now.

  “Molly, what a pleasant surprise,” Smith says, a devious twinkle in his eye.

  As if he didn’t know I worked here, or that I most likely had a shift each night I wasn’t in the Hamptons.

  I have to swallow the rude retort and put on my best you’re-an-asshole-but-I-want-a-good-tip face. “Smith, thank you for dining with us tonight. What can I start you two off with? We have a wonderful cabernet bottle we’re featuring tonight, or perhaps a bottle of champagne. We should start your date night off right.”

  My tone has so much bitterness during that last sentence, and I can’t even contain it. My professional mask is slipping by the second, but Smith has just added the straw that’s breaking the camel’s back on this whole crappy night.

  His blond dream girl snickers into her napkin, and Smith looks like I’ve just poured a drink in his lap.

  Neither of them answers me, so I push forward. “You know what, I’ll just give you two another moment to decide.”

  Because I can’t stand in front of them any longer. I stride off, my heart burning with embarrassment and the urge to cry pressing at the corner of my eyeballs.

  “Molly.” I can hear Smith coming after me, following me, and I swerve through the dining room into a dark back corner.

  “I can’t believe I fell for that crap on the porch.” I get all up in his face. “It was just another one of your mean pranks, wasn’t it? Fool me into thinking you felt something for me, just so you could see my face when you did this? You’re a piece of shit, honestly, Smith. Why can’t you just leave me—”

  “She’s my sister. Her name is Gianna,” he explains, and by the look on his face, I know he’s telling the truth.

  Oh. Well, crap.

  “You … you don’t look anything alike.” I sneak a glance at her from the hallway containing the point-of-sale computer and extra wineglasses.

  “That’s what Botox and hair dye will do, but don’t tell her I said that. I also am not telling you that she’s shaved her unibrow since the fourth grade.” He smirks like a little boy tattling on his sibling.

  Smith tells me this to try to make me smile, but I’m too jacked up on the adrenaline of my diatribe that I only got to half spew.

  “Well, why are you even here? You knew I was working, so you wanted me to wait on you?” That idea stings even more than him coming here on a date with another woman.

  Smith drops his head to his chest, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I can see now that my plan really was not thought out. I should have just asked to come over to your apartment, cooked you dinner or brought you flowers. I just … I wanted to see you. I thought this might be a good way.”

  And my heart is a mushy puddle by my feet. Surly, brooding Smith is insanely attractive, but Smith being sweet? That’s just downright irresistible.

  My attitude softens, and part of me wants to walk into him and get a great big hug, but I refrain. “Sorry, it’s just been a really long night. I’m … I’m actually kind of glad to see you.”

  “Miss me?” he asks, grinning like a fool.

  “I didn’t say that.” My smile is shy. “Go back to your sister, I’ll grab you that bottle of cabernet, it’s good.”

  “That would be great. I really want you to come meet her. She’ll think it’s hilarious you accused her of being my date.”

  My cheeks burn. “Oh God, that’s going to be embarrassing.”

  He reaches out, stroking my cheek with one finger. “No, it won’t be. I’ll make sure of it.”

  We stand there for a moment, his hand lingering on my face, and I just blink up into his eyes. What the heck is happening between us?

  Smith goes back to his table, and I fetch the bottle of red wine. I bring it back, uncorking it for them, and spend a few minutes being introduced to Gianna, who is a high-powered lawyer in the city. She’s brilliant and beautiful, but down to earth and doesn’t look at me through privileged lenses. I’m pleasantly surprised, to use Smith’s words, that the whole meal is quite nice. It doesn’t feel like I’m waiting on them, and they’re both so warm and inviting that I end up talking to them a lot about their family growing up.

  When it comes time for the bill, I drop it by Smith, and tell him not to worry about the tip. “Please, it will make me feel weird.”

  He raises an eyebrow at me. “Fine, but you have to agree to something else, then.”

  “And what’s that?” I smile, directing it to Gianna who looks at her brother in anticipation.

  “A date. With me. This weekend.” It’s like he’s daring me.

  My heart flutters, and my throat goes dry. He’s given me as much space as his ego will allow, I suppose. And the time he’s been in the restaurant tonight has been the bright spot of my shift.

  I take a deep breath, knowing I’m about to stumble into something unknown. “Okay. I will.”

  19

  Molly

  I still can’t believe I agreed to go on a date with Smith Redfield.

  My brain still feels like it’s been thrown for a literal loop, but here I am, waiting out front of our summer house in pretty white linen sh
orts and a chambray tank top, waiting for Smith to meet me out here.

  It’s only Ray at home right now, and even if he saw us leaving together, we could say that we were just getting groceries or liquor. But I came out here alone because I’m not sure if Smith wants anyone to know what we’re doing. I’m shocked he even asked me, or that he likes me at all in the first place.

  Likes me sounds like such a juvenile phrase, but I can’t think of a better one. And that’s what this is, right? He’s admitting he had a crush on me when I was dating Justin, isn’t that what he meant?

  Either way, there are butterflies in my stomach the size of eagles. My hands are sweating, which is gross but true, and I can’t stop nervously shifting from foot to foot.

  “Hey, sorry. Just had to grab my wallet.” Smith comes down the front porch steps, and my mouth goes dry.

  Does he have to be this gorgeous? As if it’s not already an unfair advantage going on a date with him, what with his charm, professional success and overall intimidating personality. No, to top it all off, the man has to look like he could be a character in the next Marvel movie.

  His jet-black hair is gelled to the side, in that suave European sort of way that also makes his jawbone look impossibly cut. In a hunter green T-shirt that clings to his pecs, biceps, and abs, and white shorts that highlight the strain of his thighs when he walks, it will be a miracle if I survive this date with dry underwear.

  “That’s okay, I just thought I’d wait out here.”

  I also needed a moment to collect myself. This will be the first date I’ve been on in more than a year, and it isn’t just some throwaway. This isn’t a setup by Heather or some half-cocked dating app meetup that I could shrug off if it didn’t go well. The ramifications of this date, this man, loom so much larger. If this doesn’t work out, we still have to share a summer house together. If this doesn’t work out, I will still have to sleep in the room next to Smith for the next month, and see him at functions for years to come if these people decide to keep me as a friend after the summer ends.

  Plus, this feels bigger in my heart. You know that sense of largeness you get, that you can’t put words to? Like the universe is aligning or something? That’s how I feel right now. I am on the verge of jumping into something after I’ve barely recovered from getting my heart broken.

  “I called us a cab, in case we want to have a drink or something. Plus, I doubted you wanted to take the bike out the first time we went somewhere together,” Smith says, right as an Uber pulls down the driveway.

  Nodding, I let him open the door of the Uber for me. “And you’d be correct. Not to mention, it freaks me out a little.”

  Smith rounds the car, a grin on his face. When he slides in on the other side, he says, “Oh, I’ll get you on that bike. But I’ll give you a pass tonight.”

  I clench the muscles in my core, because the way he just said he’ll get me on the bike. Well, it sounds like he’d like to put something entirely different between my legs. And now I’m blushing. Hard.

  The sun is setting as we drive through the Hamptons; the trees swaying in the midsummer breeze. People pedal colorful pastel bikes along the road, and every once in a while, we pass a roadside restaurant where patrons spill onto outdoor picnic tables.

  “Where are we going?” I ask to break up the silence.

  “Well, I figured we both spend a lot of time in restaurants, so I thought we’d do something different.”

  “Okay?” I can’t help the curious grin that sneaks out.

  He took the time to think about my daily schedule, and to be honest, I’m not a huge fan of sit-down meals. Yes, I want to have a conversation with Smith, desperately do, but I see enough people sit through hours long meals per week. I’d rather stretch my bones.

  The Uber driver swings into a parking lot, and a fake waterfall catches my attention.

  “No way.” I start to laugh. “You’re taking me mini-golfing?”

  “We wouldn’t be at the beach if we didn’t mini-golf, right?” Smith’s smirk is dazzling. “Don’t move.”

  He bolts out of the car and jogs around to open my door, taking my hand. The minute our fingers touch, a zing of electricity goes from the tips of my fingers to my toes.

  After he signs us in at the stand with a bored-looking teenage girl, we pick out our clubs and then our balls.

  “Red, huh?” I say, observing his choice.

  “Like Tiger on Sundays.” He winks. “And you, yellow?”

  “My favorite color, like the sunset,” I tell him.

  “Loser has to buy ice cream.” Smith lets me walk ahead of him onto the green for the first hole, which is around a clapping plastic dolphin and some starfish.

  We shoot our first shots, and I come closer to the hole than he does. Which sounds dirty, and I immediately think so, but have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Or gloating.

  “Do you play golf often?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

  After lining up his shot and sinking it in on the second try, Smith looks at me. And when he looks at me, I feel like he’s looking right through my clothes.

  “No, not really. I’m usually working. And, well, I typically only ever work. And if I’m not truly working, I’m at the restaurant, wondering what else I can do to work more.”

  I chuckle. “Wow, and here I thought you had a wild social life.”

  “Mostly just overseeing the businesses, to be honest. Is that what happens when you love your job? God, I sound like all those people I used to make fun of when I was a kid and wanted to be Bear Grylls when I grew up.” We move onto the next hole, quickly going through that one and then onto the third.

  “No, I know what you mean. It’s only halfway through the summer and I’m already developing lesson plans in my head. Thinking about what I can do to engage my students this year. If I could work round the clock to improve their lives, I would. So I get it. I’d always rather be teaching.”

  Smith asks me more questions about my class, my school and some other surface level topics as we move through the course. We talk about his new restaurant and the vibe he’s trying to give it; I tell him a little about my mom and dad, and we laugh about sharing the same hatred for laugh-track comedy shows.

  “So, we’re on a date,” I say stupidly after a lapse in conversation, immediately wanting to kick myself.

  “We are.” He grins.

  “Do you think the other housemates know?” I ask, thinking this whole thing is funny.

  Smith’s midnight blue eyes go cloudy. “Only if you told Heather. I didn’t tell anyone else. I thought we could just enjoy tonight, ourselves.”

  My heart stutters, because the way he said that doesn’t sound encouraging.

  “Let’s not tell anyone in the house,” Smith says, his eyes shifting around.

  My stomach plummets, dropping in that nauseous way it does right before you’re hurtled over the edge of the roller coaster drop. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

  I turn away, pretending to line up my shot so I can chew on my lip and try not to let him see the shame burning at the corner of my eyes. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Smith wants to keep us a secret, but it still guts me. It’s the same feeling I had the first time I told Luke Evans that I liked him in the sixth grade, and he showed the note to the entire class and then completely turned me down. That sick-to-your-stomach, want-to-go-home-and-cry-into-your-pillow feeling invades my throat, and I completely bungle my shot on this sixteenth hole.

  It’s Smith’s turn, and I walk past him without saying a word or looking at him. I can’t. Not now, not when I know he wants to keep me a secret. The icky slime of that realization sits heavy on my heart as he takes his next shot. You could hear crickets as we walk down the hole, the infamous windmill shot tripping me up epically on the first, second, and third tries.

  I get so frustrated, from my ball being spit back out, that I make a tiny whimpering noise. But it’s just a facade for the real problem—Smith wanting to keep this da
te a secret. Keep me a secret.

  “Hey, you okay?” He reaches for my arm, turning me to him.

  I avoid his eye and bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. “Fine.”

  Smith sighs. “I’m no expert on women, but even I know that means you’re so far from fine. I grew up with sisters, remember? What did I do wrong?”

  I feel like a sullen child as I try to speak through the lump in my throat. “You … do you not want to tell the house because you’re embarrassed to be on a date with me?”

  One second I’m separated from him, and the next, strong arms are pulling me in, and two fingers tilt under my chin so that I have to look him in the eyes. When I do, they’re fierce and intense upon mine.

  “Don’t even think that. Not for one second. I’m an idiot, Molly. I didn’t mean it in that way, by no means am I embarrassed by you. Hell, if anyone is out of their league on this date, it’s me. I seriously don’t deserve to have an ounce of your attention. I just said that because, well, you were with Justin. I don’t know how weird my friends would be with me dating my best friend’s ex, plus we’re roommates so that complicates things. And I just want some time for us. I don’t want to share our connection with other people, or invite their criticism or opinions on us dating. For a little while, I just want to stay in the bubble with you. Can we have our bubble, even if for just a moment?”

  In the back of my mind, my brain doubts what he’s saying. But with the way Smith is looking at me, my heart can’t help but be convinced. Hopefully, I won’t get burned, but I don’t think I could stop now even if I knew that would be the outcome.

  We finish up our round of golf, and I end up beating him, though I think he might have bungled his last shot on purpose. I get a hot-fudge dipped cone and Smith gets a mint chocolate chip milkshake from an ice cream shop two storefronts down from the mini-golf place, and then we head back to the house.