She’s the image of longing, and I want to take her home.
“So . . .”
“So,” she says, her breath uneven.
My lips curve up in a crooked grin. “That’s what it would be like if we dated.”
“So now we know.”
“Now we know,” I echo.
I know we can’t go there, we got caught up, but I want to know what could happen next, and what the hell this means. Except, I don’t think I’m going to get those answers. Sometimes you have to hit pause in the middle of a game instead of playing on.
That’s what we do when the waitress shows up a few seconds later, asking if we need anything else. We pause, and I tell the waitress just the check, and McKenna and I instantly return to work chatter, talking about how today went.
It’s easier than saying Wow, or Let’s do that again, or So, should we try this thing?
I don’t say those words, nor does she.
Maybe neither one of us knows what we want to happen next.
Correction: I know what I want. I just don’t know if my wishes make any sense.
I ignore them, pasting on my best let’s have fun working together face. “So, Miss Rock Star with the dating answers, any type of questions in particular you want me to find for you to tackle in the next segment?”
She purses her lips, gazes at the ceiling, then seems to find the answer. “I was thinking I could answer questions about how to meet people in real life these days. I can talk about the girls’ night out I have planned for this weekend. We’re going to The Tiki Bar on Fillmore. It’s such an old-school way to meet someone, but I kind of love it and am curious if it still works. And I have a coffee-making class too. I thought it would be a great way to meet new people. And maybe some new guys. Don’t you think it’s a good idea?”
It’s a horrible idea. I swallow past the stone in my throat. “Yeah. Sounds like a great plan.”
“Don’t worry.” She pats my arm and shoots me a sweet, tempting grin. “If we were dating, I’d cancel it.”
I nearly jump on that. My lips and tongue are ready to say Cancel it now.
But I remember Carly and all the shit that went wrong when our plane sputtered to the ground.
A voice in my head says, You have trust issues.
Another voice says, Time to get over them, dickhead.
I’d like to take her out.
I’d love to do this again.
But by the time I’m ready to ask – What if we just went out on a date?— McKenna has moved on to other topics, and I don’t have the chance to reveal how seriously I want her to cancel her class.
Or maybe it’s better I don’t take the chance.
Because I’m not so sure if that’s what she wants me to do.
20
McKenna
I should be upbeat.
This is going better than expected.
What were the chances I’d not only nab a parking spot right outside my coffee-making class, but master the art of making a latte and, on top of that, snag a date?
Slim.
But slim chances paid off, and maybe my dating karma is throwing down the gauntlet to compete with my parking karma. Because the goddesses of dating have delivered J. P., the chatty, goateed, aspiring coffee-maker I was paired up with in the two-hour class. When class ended, he asked me out, and here we are, ordering a drink on a Thursday evening at a bar.
“Let me guess—you’re not in the mood for anything coffee-based,” he says, a smile crinkling the corners of his lips.
“And you guessed right. How about a martini?”
“Coming right up,” he says then orders.
We make small talk, and I learn more about him. He’s twenty-five—yay, me, for appealing to a younger man—studied communications in college, and works as an assistant director for a sports marketing firm.
So far, he seems—dare I even think it? —normal.
No rampant sexism. No rivers of tears.
It’s my responsibility, then, to make the most of tonight, even though a part of me is elsewhere, and I don’t know how to graft it back in.
But I try. I’m a trier. I’m the go-getter, the plucky gal who swings back against heartbreak. I focus on my date, his kind brown eyes, his thoughtful expression. “Tell me more about what you do. Sports marketing sounds fascinating,” I say, swinging my foot back and forth like I did with Chris. Maybe that’ll make me feel the way I do when I’m around him.
J. P. beams, eager to share his passion, it seems. “I love it. I love every second of it. I love to ski and hike and bike and run, and I love the chance to market races and triathlons . . .”
He continues telling me about his work, and it’s interesting.
I swear, it’s truly interesting.
And he’s completely friendly.
Wonderfully engaging.
I try desperately to focus on every word.
But a big chunk of my brain is back in time, replaying yesterday.
That kiss. That absolutely delicious, decadent, toe-curling, bone-melting, mind-bending kiss.
That was the reason kissing exists—for kisses like that. A shiver runs through me at the memory that feels less like a memory and more like my body is living it again.
I actually feel that hot rush of golden sensation cascading over my shoulders as I replay the kiss. It’s on repeat in my mind. The way his hand curved around my neck, the way he lingered on a strand or two of hair, stroking it, touching it. How his lips devoured mine. Pleasure slams through my body like I’ve hit the hammer at a carnival.
What the holy hell?
“And that’s my goal,” J. P. says as our drinks arrive.
Ashamed I’ve no clue what he said, I do my best cover-up, raising a glass. “Let’s toast to meeting and exceeding goals.”
Not to remembered lust.
He clinks his glass to mine and asks me about my goals.
I have so many. Normally I get so excited about business and the site and blog, but right now, my number one goal is to figure out what went wrong at the end of the swoon-worthy quesadillas.
Yet I’m pretty sure I know what went wrong.
He didn't tell me to cancel my class today.
And I would have. I would have canceled the class in a heartbeat. I was waiting on the edge of my orange plastic seat in the taqueria for those words to rush past his lips.
Cancel your coffee class. Cancel it and go out with me.
That’s what went wrong. I’ve started to want something I can’t have. Because Chris doesn't date women he works with.
Drinks with J. P. lasts another forty-five minutes, and it’s fine. Everything about it is fine, except for my stupid mind, stupidly wandering to places where it shouldn't go.
* * *
“Maybe I should call this dating thing off.” I flop down on Hayden’s couch later that night.
She lifts an eyebrow. “Because of one bad date?”
“Three. Well, tonight’s was good. I was bad.”
“What happened?” She settles in next to me.
I bury my face in the couch pillow, muttering, “I was a bad date. I was distracted.”
“Ah, what distracted you, kitten?”
I grumble and mumble, “I like someone.”
She hums. “Didn’t see that one coming when he posted a snippet of the segment.”
I yank the pillow off my face. “What? You could tell? From a snippet?”
She scoffs, petting my hair. “You’re so cute.”
I toss the pillow at her. “Stop. Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she insists as she crosses one long leg over the other.
“How?”
She cackles. She howls with laughter. “You’re hilarious. You have it bad, wanting to know if it’s obvious.”
“Well? I’m waiting.” I twiddle my thumbs.
“You guys have this great chemistry. But more than that, it’s sort of a charm, a sweetness. I feel as if I’m watching two people
flirt.”
I groan. “That’s the worst thing you could have said.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s exactly how I feel with him. All warm and bubbly. Like a delicious soda you crack open. And it’s effervescent, and you want to taste it so badly.”
“And how does his soda taste?” she asks, in an Elvira-type purr.
“Like the best soda ever. Obviously.”
She smiles like she has a secret. “This is good, then.”
I shake my head, popping her bubble. My own has already been pricked. “He doesn’t get involved with women he works with. He made that clear the first day I met him, before we started working together. It’s just a rule of his. Do I know how to pick ’em or what?” I flip over and frown. My sad face sags down to my knees, and I hope I look so pathetic that Hayden will take pity on me and bake me her spectacular butterscotch cookies.
“Well done then, Fashion Hound,” she says sarcastically, patting my shoulder as Chaucer saunters by.
I point at the Siamese. “It’s all his fault. If he hadn’t knocked down my hard drive, I’d never have met Chris, and then I’d never have felt all this conflict.” I say the last word on an epic moan.
Hayden turns to the cat. “Evidently everything is always your fault.”
He meows saucily and turns the corner into the kitchen, leaping onto the counter. A sound like ceramic hitting tile rends the air.
Hayden sighs. “Looks like he attacked a mug.”
“His hatred of all things knows no bounds.”
She rolls her eyes. “I know. I’ll clean it in a minute. But first, how exactly did this kiss come about if Chris has such an ironclad rule?”
I turn over again, about to spit out an easy answer, but there isn’t one. It came about because we were playing a game. The “if we dated” game.
She nudges me. “C’mon. I can see it in your eyes. Something interesting went down.”
“We were just talking, and one of us said something like, ‘If we dated we’d do this or that.’ And then it kind of spiraled into a kiss?” I say it like a question. Like I’m sorting out how it happened. And perhaps I am.
“Oh, it just spiraled?”
But I know it didn’t just happen. We’ve been building toward it. I shake my head. “No. It was sort of inevitable. We do click. It’s crazy. But the thing is, my audience loves the dating segments. Checking my web stats is the biggest rush. It’s like a hit of something intoxicating. Every day, it’s growing. My views are going up, revenue is up—everything is cooking. I’m starting to make inroads in luring a male audience like Kara, my investor, wants. And really, I shouldn't mess with those efforts. Business is the one reliable thing in my life. Well, besides my dog and my friends.”
She offers a smile and squeezes my shoulder. “That’s a pretty solid number of reliable things. But, you know, dating isn’t supposed to count.”
“Why?” I ask, unsure of her meaning.
“Dating isn’t designed to be reliable. It’s wild and chaotic and unpredictable. If you like this guy, go for chaos rather than reliability.”
The idea is bright and shiny, and I’m the squirrel who wants to snag it. But whatever game Chris and I are playing requires two, and he’s stated his position from the start. “He doesn’t want to date or get involved. I think he only wanted to kiss. And I wasn't kicking him away for doing that. It was amazing. I can still feel it.”
She arches a brow. “He wants to kiss you but not take you out? Ah, hell no.”
I nod sadly. “I know, right? But look, I wanted it too. Maybe I just needed to get one fabulous kiss out of my system.” I flash her a goofy grin, like that’ll get her to agree with my brilliant justification.
“Then don’t date him. Just kiss him. And more. Definitely more. Do more than kissing, pretty please?”
“You dirty perv.”
“I’m only looking out for your lady parts. I bet they appreciate me being a dirty perv. So I say”—Hayden lowers her voice to a whisper, only after whipping her head around to make sure Lena isn’t on the prowl—“kiss him again. And then climb him.”
The mere mention of climbing Chris sets my skin on fire, makes my organs positively glow with lust. I bet anyone can see inside me, an X-ray woman, and see I’m zooming toward DEFCON 1 on the scale of readiness.
But there’s one little issue.
“I can’t make him change his mind,” I say.
“No, but you can put yourself out there. Consider it. This dating experiment is led by you. It’s about what you want. You being ready. You testing the waters. If you’re ready for something, try it. And someday, when you least expect it, you’ll find someone you’ll want to date forever. Your person.”
I tear up, my throat catching. She knows what the soft, squishy part of my heart wants again someday.
But right now? It’s still too tender.
“Hey. Would you be okay if our girls’ night is just girls? No looking for guys or dates or anything?”
“Of course. Whatever you want.”
“I don’t know that I’m up for it this weekend. I might be dated out for the week.”
She laughs softly. “And now dated out is a thing.”
“I suppose it is.” I stand, stretch. “I think I’m going to spend the rest of the night with my dog. Thanks for listening.”
“Anytime, sweetie,” she says as she heads to her kitchen to clean up Chaucer’s latest carnage.
I return home, and Ms. Pac-Man is so excited to see me that I give her a kiss on her wet snout. She licks my cheek, a big, sloppy dog kiss, and I love it. “Maybe you’re my person.”
She whimpers her yes.
She loves me unconditionally, and I love her the same.
I pat the side of my leg, her cue to trot along with me as we head into my bedroom and over to the closet. “Let’s look at clothes for tomorrow’s shoot, shall we?”
She sits as I survey my wardrobe, watching me, her tail still wagging. I can’t resist. I bend down to pet her once more. My dog is the definition of loyal. I don’t need anything more.
Except I still want to know what it’s like to feel this kind of adored . . . by a person.
21
Chris
“Thank you all for attending. We’re incredibly grateful for the support of so many business owners and San Francisco icons.” The words from the head of the San Francisco Children’s Hospital echo across the ballroom as the benefit luncheon draws to a close.
I clap, stand, then say goodbye to our tablemates as I stroll out of the hotel ballroom with Cooper.
“Saw the bit you posted yesterday,” he says.
“Stalking me again on social media? You can’t get enough of me.”
“I know, I know. It’s like you’re irresistible.” He pauses. “Not.”
“And yet you watch me.”
“Hey, you watch me too,” he points out.
“That’s different. I have to if I want to watch the Renegades, and I do root for the local team in spite of its ugly-as-sin quarterback. You, however, choose to watch me because, admit it, I’m awesome.”
He cracks up. “Your modesty knows no bounds. And to think I was going to wish you luck at staying unentangled.”
I furrow my brow. “Why would you wish me luck after seeing the bit I posted?”
“You looked like you brought your girlfriend onto the show.”
“Seriously?” This is news to me. “Why the hell would you say that?”
“Have you seen how you two are together?”
“No.”
“Then watch a segment, man. You just act like you’re, I dunno, a couple.”
“We do?”
He claps my shoulder. “It’s funny when you can’t see what’s right in front of you. But yes, it’s obvious there’s a little something cooking between you two. Bet all your viewers picked up on it. The question now is, what are you going to do about it?”
I sigh heavily.
“Ah,
hell. You already did something. You dog.”
“It was just a kiss.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re into her. You should bring her to karaoke night the next time we all go. Because clearly you have it bad for her.”
I shoot him my best skeptical look to avoid the complete and utter truth of his statement. “Please.”
“Just admit it. It’s obvious. Are you going to ignore it and adhere to your rules? Or are you going to throw a pass under pressure?”
I level with him. “You’re in the pocket. The line is coming at you. What do you do?”
He doesn’t need time to consider his options. He only has mere seconds—no, split seconds—when he’s on the field to make a call. Decisions come quickly to a quarterback. “If I see an opening, I go for it. Always go for it.”
I nod, considering his sports wisdom, searching for a way to make it fit my game plan.
Trouble is, he’s talking about a high-stakes game played in front of millions every Sunday. He has to go for it.
The rules of my world are different.
At least, I think they are.
* * *
Cooper is right.
The viewers aren’t the only ones who see something. Bruce does too. He’s all grins when he pokes his head into the studio as we record our segment Saturday morning.
“Vince in San Diego wants to know how to tell the difference between a lie and the truth.” I toss the question to the dating expert.
McKenna makes a yikes face. “Bring a lie detector with you. Carry it in a murse. It’s the only way to be certain.”
I laugh but soldier on. “Seriously though. He asks: ‘Does a cancellation, a phone call from a friend, or a mention that she has someplace to be after coffee or drinks mean she’s not into you?’”
McKenna seems to consider the question, then answers, “That’s the thing about human communication. We don’t always know. It’s entirely possible she truly has someplace to be. But it’s also possible she needs an out. And . . . wait for it . . . it might mean both.”
The Dating Proposal Page 10
