Them (her Book 3)

by Portia Moore

  “I had this feeling you were going to stand me up.” I chuckle to take the edge off of the comment, but it’s not a joke. Every time my phone went off today, I was sure it was going to be her making an excuse as to why she couldn’t go. Or that I’d get here, and she’d just never emerge. Or it’d be the wrong address.

  “I wouldn’t have stood you up,” she says gently. “If I wasn’t going to go, I would have told you beforehand.”

  I look at her carefully. I want her to want to be here, to be as happy about it as I am. “Is there a reason you would have?” I ask, and her eyes meet mine. They’re that startling shade of green, a little sad as always, and I wonder what’s behind them.

  “I’m not much of a dater,” she admits.

  I raise my eyebrows. That’s the hardest thing to believe that she’s said yet. “I’d have thought you had guys lining up for the chance.” Honestly, it seems like the luckiest thing that has happened to me all year that she is even single.

  “This is my first year going to school on campus. I’ve been doing virtual admin work the last year or so. I haven’t really been out much.”

  “Purdue’s best kept secret, then. I’m glad I found you first.” And am I ever. For a girl who claims she’s practically a shut-in, she’s not awkward or strange. Exactly the opposite, really. She’s honest and charming, and the conversation is already flowing easily. It’s a good sign, I know. “Well, I have a surprise for you,” I tell her. “I hope you love the date idea that I had.”

  From her expression when we walk into the large room where the cooking class is held, she never even guessed a little bit that this was where I was taking her. Her mouth is half open as she takes in the countertops where we’ll create our food, the stainless steel range and oven, and the teacher, Ms. Chereaux.

  There’s only two other couples here, and we take our spots at one of the countertops. There’s neatly printed instructions, and Megan and I both bend over the page and begin to read.

  “Crepes,” she says, a little nervously. “I’ve never even eaten crepes, let alone made them.”

  “Well, this should be fun, then!” I say. “Look, we have the option for sweet or savory. Which do you want to do?”

  She bites her lower lip, and it sends a small shiver down my spine. She doesn’t know how cute she looks when she does that—cute in a sexy way. I’ve never been on a date with a girl who is such a perfect mix of sexy and adorable. “I like sweet,” she says hesitantly.

  “Well, what a coincidence. I like sweet too.” I smile down at her. “Here’s three options for sweet, so just pick which ingredients you want, and I’ll pick mine.” I lean closer. “We should probably pick two different ones, so we can try each other’s.”

  She looks up at me and I can’t quite decipher what she’s thinking. I can tell she’s surprised by the date, that she expected something—else. Probably dinner and a movie, which is the standard, I guess. But I wanted to do something to wow her right off the bat, to show her that I’m not like all the other guys who won’t put in effort.

  I don’t know how to cook to save my life, but I figure I can manage this much, at least. Megan doesn’t seem much better off, but the truth is that it’s working out exactly as I hoped. I didn’t pick the class because I thought we’d be world-class chefs, but because I wanted something to break the ice. Something to make us laugh, and feel closer to each other. And it’s working. Megan even seems to like my dumb jokes.

  “It’s like a pancake, but thinner,” I explain. “Really thin, so you have to be careful taking it off of the crepe pan.” I can feel her watching me as I pour the batter out, and I wonder what she thinks of me. It’s one of the things I can’t quite get a read on just yet.

  “Turn up the heat how you want in the bedroom!” Ms. Chereaux calls out, her elegant voice filling the room, and I see Megan’s face turn bright red. It confuses me, because she’s so beautiful that I can’t imagine she’s really that sheltered. But she did say she spent most of her time at home.

  “I suck at cooking,” Megan admits as she pokes at her crepe, trying to get it off of the skillet before it burns. “But I’m glad you chose this place.”

  “I wanted to do something fun where I could get to know you. Our options are limited here in good ole Indiana, but this isn’t as bad as I thought it would be.” In fact, it’s much better than I’d hoped. I feel like we’ve gotten more comfortable with each other, that this is a date that might lead to a second date.

  “I hope it’s a hundred times better than you ever expected!” I hear Ms. Chereaux’s voice behind us, and both Megan and I jump a little.

  “Oui!” I say jokingly, and I see Megan blush again, but this time she’s smiling. Okay, so my jokes are a little embarrassing, but at least she’s still laughing. That’s the important part.

  “The secret ingredient to making food is to make it with love…passion…think of food as your lover,” she says in her thickly accented voice, winking at Megan and patting me on the shoulder. I don’t think Megan can get any more flushed, but I can’t help what comes out of my mouth next. She’s biting her lip again, her cheeks a bright red, and I want to lean down and kiss her so badly.

  “I’m much better at other things, I promise,” I say, peeling my crepe off of the pan and looking down at her. I let my eyes show a little of the innuendo behind the statement, hopefully not enough to freak her out, but enough to show her that I want her. Because I do. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.

  She presses her lips together, looking away quickly as she starts to fill her crepe with banana, chocolate, and powdered sugar. She piles it on, clearly trying to make it edible, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re like an eight-year-old,” I tease, and I see her freeze in place as she reaches for more banana. I can tell I’ve either embarrassed or offended her, and I backtrack quickly. That wasn’t what I meant to do at all. “No, it’s cute,” I assure her quickly, reaching for the powdered sugar myself. “I didn’t mean to offend you.” As if to make up for it, I add another pile of strawberries and sugar to mine.

  We take our seats at one of the wooden tables with cute little carved benches. Megan opts to sit next to me, side-by-side, and I take that as a good sign. Hopefully I didn’t upset her too much with my joke.

  “Before we break bread, I’d like to share with you a tale of two lovers from my country,” Ms. Chereaux begins, and I smile briefly. I know this story; in fact, she’s already asked me to help with this part of the night. It’s romantic and sweet, and I can’t help wondering as Megan’s knee touches mine, the scent of her perfume filling my nose, if we’ll have our own romantic story one day. One that starts here, with crepes and laughter.

  “Alexander and Sophie, we’ll call them,” she continues. “Sophie was beautiful, of course, as girls must be in stories like this. She was a student at the time, young and vibrant, and would stop at a little café every day before her class. Alexander was a handsome young man who worked in the café and would watch Sophie from afar every day. This was not creepy in those times.” Everyone laughs, and I feel Megan soften next to me, her eyes wide as she listens to the romantic story. I take the risk and reach over, sliding my hand down her arm and reaching for her hand. I link my fingers through hers, and she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her fingers lock around mine and we’re holding hands under the table. The first time we’ve really touched and it’s amazing.

  “One day he worked up the courage to ask her if she was available for a date, and he did this writing the question on her favorite pastry. However, the pastry was instead delivered to a big burly prideful man who was sitting next to Sophie, and that request did not go over well. The man was upset and insulted, and Sophie stepped in saying that it was her request as a joke. And being young, vibrant, and beautiful as she was, the man only mildly scolded them both. Young Sophie then asked Alexander if she could have one of her very own crepes and if so then she would like one that said ‘yes.’ He obliged, and that was the firs
t of many they shared over a lifetime.”

  “That’s so romantic,” Megan whispers next to me, her hand still firmly linked through mine.

  And…the plot twist.

  “Isn’t your name Sophie, though, Ms. Chereaux?” I ask innocently, putting all the charm I can into my voice as it carries through the room. Megan looks over at me, surprised, and Ms. Chereaux laughs.

  “Guilty!”

  “And I was the schmuck who almost got pummeled,” her husband adds as he walks out to join her. As she kisses him on the cheek, I feel Megan squeeze my hand.

  “That was such a cute story,” Megan whispers as we start to cut into our crepes. “Were you asked to tell everyone her name?”

  “Ms. Chereaux is actually a friend of the family,” I admit. I cut a piece of mine off, scoop it up with the fork, and hold it out to her to taste. They’ve provided a plate of eggs and sausage to complement the crepes, and Megan is putting some on both of our plates for us. She leans forward and takes the bite, her eyes meeting mine, and I feel that small shiver again.

  “Really? Your mom is French?” She steals a blackberry off of my plate.

  “No, she spent a year abroad where she and Ms. Chereaux met.”

  I see Megan’s eyes widen. “Wow, that’s amazing,” she says, clearly impressed.

  “Have you been to France?” I ask, as she offers me a bite of her crepe. Hers is…slightly less well-cooked, but still edible, and I gladly take it. The date is shaping up to be every bit as romantic as I’d hoped. We stopped holding hands when we started eating, and I miss her skin against mine.

  She shakes her head quickly. “No, the only place I’ve been to outside of Indiana is Michigan. At least, that’s what my birth certificate says.” She laughs a little, clearly trying to make light of it, and I hope I haven’t embarrassed her again.

  “Really, not even Chicago?” It’s hard to believe that she hasn’t even been there. She’s more sheltered than I realized. But instead of putting me off, like it might have with some other girls, it just makes me think of all the places I could take her and show her for the first time. All of the horizons I could open.

  “No, not even there.” She looks away awkwardly, taking another bite of her crepe. “I bet you’ve been everywhere, haven’t you?” she asks, clearly trying to deflect the conversation away from herself.

  “Nah.” I give her an easy grin. I want to lighten the mood again, to get it back to where it was a few minutes ago.

  “Come on, where have you been?” She looks at me earnestly, as if she really wants to know.

  I run one hand through my hair. I don’t want her to feel as if we’re different…any more than she already does, anyway. I wanted tonight to bring us closer, not highlight the divide between us. “My parents are big travelers, so we’ve gone to Europe a couple of times,” I admit. I see her eyes flick to the watch on my wrist. It makes me wish I’d left it at home, just like I’m beginning to wish I’d had my truck to take her here instead of the Porsche.

  “Excuse me,” she says quickly, getting up. I stand up with her, looking down at her anxious face as my heart starts to pound.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I just have to go to the bathroom.”

  All I can do is let her go as I sit back down at the table. It wasn’t as if I could hide my family or my circumstances from her forever. At some point she was going to find out that I have money, that we’ve always been comfortable, that Katie and I are privileged. But I don’t want it to divide us. I won’t lie—I wanted to impress her but it just seems like I’ve made her nervous and uncomfortable, which is the exact opposite of what I was hoping for. It feels as if all the progress we made throughout the date is gone, and we’re right back to where we were when she first got into my car. Maybe worse.

  She’s gone for a while. I’m starting to think that she’s called an Uber and ditched me but she reappears, a nervous smile on her face. I glance up at her, poking at my cooling crepe.

  “Hi,” she says softly, and the smile changes from anxious to more natural. She’s happy to see me, at least, and that sends some of my nerves away.

  “I thought I lost you for a minute.”

  She sits down and runs her hand through her hair, looking at me nervously. “I just kind of want to put it out here,” she says, and I feel those nerves returning. I don’t know what she’s going to say, but I hope it doesn’t end with “I have a boyfriend” or “let’s be friends.”

  “I don’t come from the best family…or even a family, to be honest. I’m at Purdue on a scholarship. I’ve never traveled and I don’t think I can afford to until who knows when. I stay in a crappy little apartment but it’s mine and it’s clean and relatively safe. It’s hard for me to open up to people because every time I have, I disappoint them or they disappoint me and it’s been easier to be alone and I’m okay with that, but for some insane reason I said yes to coming out with you and I’m here and I hate that I’m ruining what should have been a perfect date because you’ve made it perfect. And you seem pretty perfect, but my imperfections are too long to list and if you just want to get up and leave, I get it. I won’t hold it against you and when we see each other at school I’ll turn and walk the other way.”

  She lets out a long sigh, as if she’s been holding that back all night—hell, maybe since we met. With anyone else, it might have scared me off. She’s telling me that she has baggage, maybe a lot of it—emotional I guess, since I can’t see anything imperfect about her. That it’s going to be hard to be with her. That she has a lot of walls. I should want easy, especially after what Blair did, but looking into Megan’s eyes I can’t bring myself to care about easy. I just want her, baggage and all. She’s looking down at her hands, and I want to reach for them again.

  “My dad and sister will let you know I’m not perfect,” I say gently. I smile at her, trying to reassure her. “I don’t care about your family or where you’ve been,” I continue, and I mean it. None of it matters to me. “I want to know you, whatever that entails, and maybe along the way you’ll figure out that you want to know me, too.” I do reach for her hand then, encompassing her small, fragile one in my broad palm. She doesn’t pull away, and that’s progress. It gives me hope.

  “How can I say no to that?” she whispers, and I can’t stop the smile spreading across my face. We’re back to the intimacy of the date we had before travel came up, and I’m relieved. “Tell me about Paris,” she says, some of the nervousness leaving her eyes as she looks sweetly up at me.

  So I do. As we eat, I tell her about the Eiffel Tower, about how it lights up at night. I tell her about Mass at Notre Dame, and about the Louvre and the awe of seeing work that people did hundreds of years ago. I tell her about fancy dinners and the simplicity of eating a baguette and cheese on the banks of the Seine. What I don’t say is that I think I want to do both of those things again with her, and see them through new eyes. I tell her about Italy and Germany too—about beer in raucous beer halls and the softest pretzels you’ve ever eaten and the castle that Cinderella’s was modeled after. I tell her about Vatican City, the tower in Pisa, about the Coliseum, and I show her some photos on my phone. Between bites of crepe, I tell her all about Naples and the pizza there, and I see her soaking it all in, taking in every word as if it’s the closest she’ll ever get to these things.

  I want to tell her that I’ll show her all of this, that I’ll take her to every place she’s ever dreamed of, but I know it’s too soon. I don’t want to scare her, so I file these thoughts away. Because I’m feeling more and more secure that maybe there will be a later, after all.

  “Am I boring you?” I ask, laughing.

  She shakes her head fervently. “No, not at all. It’s crazy, all the places you’ve been to! Your parents must really want you to be well-traveled.”

  “They think it’s an education in its own right. And I agree with them. I feel very lucky,” I say, and I mean it. I never really thought about how lucky I was,
until I told Megan all of this.

  We say our goodbyes to Ms. Chereaux and her husband, and I see her wink at Megan as we leave. I want to ask Megan what that’s about, but I don’t want to break the spell between us. She smiles shyly at me as I open the door for her, and I look out onto the quaint little downtown street. “You mind taking a walk?” I ask, glancing down at her. “It’s beautiful out.”

  There’s a warm breeze out, and I want to reach for her hand, but they’re shoved firmly in her jeans pockets. As we walk, I fish for a topic of conversation, but I really just want to ask her more about herself. “So, a scholarship? That’s amazing,” I venture, hoping that she’ll open up a little more

  “It probably helped that I was a foster kid.” Her tone is dismissive, and I wonder if she really thinks that.

  “Still, you’re the first person I’ve met with an accomplishment like that. Beautiful and a genius,” I tell her teasingly, trying to draw her out of her shell. I want her to see herself like I do, not hide behind what’s either false modesty, or just not being aware of her own best qualities.

  “Far from a genius,” she retorts, laughing.

  “And modest!” I give her a lopsided grin, and she looks up at me suddenly with an intensity that makes me wonder what she’s thinking.

  “Your ex,” she says softly. “You mentioned her before.”

  Oh no. Blair is the last person I want to talk about. But I can understand her being curious. I laugh a little uneasily, and she stops, looking up at me with a reassuring smile. Well, if I want her to open up, I have to return the favor.

  “I think that she thought I was a certain kind of person and I thought she was too. We were both wrong.” I shrug. I don’t want to bad-mouth Blair or talk about the details. I want Megan to see me as respectful, even of someone who hurt me.

  “Do you miss her?”

  “I miss who I thought she was,” I admit, going for honesty. It’s always worked with Megan in the past. I see some thought cross her face fleetingly, and then she just nods and starts to walk again. I lengthen my stride to catch back up.