The Dating Proposal

by Blakely, Lauren

We don’t say a word about trust issues. We don’t dissect the ones we both have. Maybe that time has passed. Or maybe we’re figuring out what matters more. Because the biggest issue I have right now is with myself. It’s believing in my own feelings. Trusting my heart. That’s why Andy’s assessment scared me. That’s why I tried to pretend this wasn't happening.

  But this is happening. I can’t deny the truth of my feelings when I’m with Chris. My heart would slap me and call me a liar.

  So I don’t even try to ignore the way my toes curl and my body melts and my soul seems to sing when I’m with him.

  “Don’t stop,” I whisper.

  He leans in for another kiss, and we continue stealing little kisses from each other all throughout the show. We laugh at the funny bits and clap at the end of each act, and we tip the waitress on the way out.

  On the street, Chris yanks me close once again. As if he can’t stop touching me. “By the way, you look beautiful tonight. Sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

  “I’ll gladly accept the compliment now. Even though I suspect you’re only saying it to get a blow job.”

  He blinks, jerking away. “What?” His tone is high-pitched. “Where did that come from?”

  I smile like a little vixen. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you haven’t given me the chance to go down on you yet, which is highly unfair of you. But I plan on rectifying that tonight.”

  He drags a hand through his hair, breathes a sigh of relief, then orders a Lyft, stat. “Rectify me all night long,” he says as we get in the car.

  * * *

  At his house, I make quick work of his jeans, unzipping them as he tugs off his T-shirt. I push him to the couch, and he falls easily, grinning as he flops down.

  “Let the great rectifying begin,” he declares.

  “And so it shall.” I take his erection in my hand, wrapping my palm around his length. He groans, a long, low, insanely sexy rumble.

  “I’ve been picturing this for a while.” I stroke up, squeezing the tip.

  “What took you so long, woman?”

  I narrow my eyes. “It’s only our third date.”

  “Like I said, what took so long?”

  “You were always busy pleasuring me. You didn’t give me a chance.”

  “Now’s your chance.”

  “And I’m taking it. Stop talking because it makes me talk back, and when I’m talking, I can’t suck your dick.”

  He purses his lips like they’re glued shut. But his eyes are wide open, his gaze intense as he watches me drop my lips to him, kissing the head.

  He twitches, his hips jerking up.

  And that’s a very nice start.

  I lick him, then draw him in deeper, every move rewarded by a dirty groan, a hoarse yeah, a feral grunt. The noises he makes are music to my ears, and I take him in all the way, savoring the taste of him in my mouth.

  He breathes out hard, cursing his appreciation. “I’ve thought about your lips on me,” he says as he runs a fingertip against my mouth. “These lips of yours . . .”

  He doesn’t finish the thought as I give him a tight, hard suck. I flick my tongue along his length as I move up, down, up, down, my fast rhythm punctuated by his growls and groans, by the arch of his hips, by the way his hands curl around my head. His fingers thread through my hair, and he drops his head back against the cushions as if this is all too much.

  Too good.

  I love the way he’s relinquishing himself to pleasure. His desire drives me on. His sounds make me go faster, take him deeper, and lavish attention on him till he jerks me away unexpectedly, his voice strangled. “You keep doing that, and I’ll come.”

  “That’s the point.”

  His hand tightens in my hair. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

  His intensity sends me into stratospheric pleasure, and I feel as if I could come without even being touched, just from how he sounds. How he needs me.

  I’ve never felt this way before.

  Never been so turned on by pleasuring a man.

  I’m melting with lust for him. “I need you too.”

  In seconds—nanoseconds, maybe—he’s taken my skirt off, and he doesn’t even bother with my top or my boots. He just slides me under him on the couch, flailing around for a condom.

  I grab his hand, stopping him. “I’m on birth control, and I’m clean.”

  “Me too.”

  That’s all we say. In an instant, he’s inside me, and I nearly cry from the pleasure. From the sheer bliss of him filling me completely.

  He rocks into me, and there’s a new urgency, a desperation, even. It’s like we’re chasing something. Something new, something scary, but something beautiful too.

  There’s another level in this game. A bonus. An Easter egg. And it’s one I didn’t see coming.

  Maybe one I didn’t want to see coming.

  But when he swivels his hips and drives deeper into me, all I see are stars. Bright sparks burst behind my eyes as I soar on a wave of white-hot pleasure. It stretches, reaches, flies until I tumble, toppling over the edge with him right beside me, holding my hand as we jump.

  Neither one of us says anything for a while. We just breathe, hard and loud.

  He takes my hand, pulls me up, and takes me to his bathroom, turning on the shower. He makes the water as hot as any human can stand, then he soaps up his hands and slides them over me, soft and tender.

  Neither one of us has said a word.

  Speechless is such a strange state for us.

  He breaks the silence, cupping my cheek. “How are we doing?”

  I swallow nervously. “We?”

  He nods, gesturing from him to me. “With this thing? This fun-dating thing?”

  I rise up on tiptoes, dust my lips over his, and whisper, “I think it’s more than fun.”

  “It’s so much more than fun.”

  That’s all either one of us says. But it feels like enough to change the game. My heart stutters, and there’s a part of me who wants to run home, jump in bed, and snuggle with my dog in a place where my heart is safe and can never be hurt again.

  Because this place here with him is no longer a safe zone. It’s teeming with risks I didn’t expect to face.

  I kiss him once more to blot out the whispers of past disappointments, past hurts, the murmurs of doubt.

  28

  Chris

  It’s Monday morning, which means meeting with the boss man. I bring him coffee this time, steam rising from the cup in a tantalizing plume. Plunking it down on his desk, I give him an I did good look.

  He nods his approval.

  “But wait. There’s more.” I dip my hand into the paper bag and grab a yogurt cup with chia seeds and potent probiotics.

  He raises his hands to block my approach, averting his face like a vampire I’d offered garlic toast to. “What are you trying to do to me?”

  “What? I thought you liked probiotics?”

  “Do you even know what a probiotic is?”

  I shrug as I plop down in the chair. “I do, and they’re good for you.”

  He shakes his head, correcting, “Good for you till they find out they’re bad for you.”

  “Oh, I forgot. You’re on the nothing-good-for-you diet.”

  “If they discovered that coffee was good for you, would you stop drinking it until they changed their minds?”

  “Not funny, kid. But since they haven’t . . .” He takes the coffee and drinks some, with a satisfied smack and a sigh afterward. “Now, this is good. And if it’s harvested by humanely raised local bear cubs, I don’t want to know.”

  “It’s from Dunkin.”

  “Now you’re talking. And now, let’s talk.” Sliding on his reading glasses, he riffles through some papers on his desk. “Emails.”

  I cringe. “You printed out emails.”

  “Please. No, my assistant did.”

  “Dude, you know that’s a waste of paper?”

  “How else can I read
’em?”

  “On your phone, like everyone else. Or, hey, even a computer. How about that?”

  “When you’re my age, you lose interest in reading everything on a screen. Now, first of all, Zander Kendrick’s manager says he’ll be calling you today to set up the interview.”

  I strum a triumphant power chord on my air guitar. “Excellent.”

  “Good things are cooking indeed. Also, viewers love the segments with McKenna. And . . .” He stops, peers over his glasses. “You two did take my advice, didn’t you?”

  We haven’t dissected our dates on the show as he’d suggested. But the chemistry is there, and I don’t try to deny it. “I think that’s fair to say.”

  He grins like a sly dog. “I had a feeling. It makes for that little extra spark. But it makes me a little nervous, admittedly, given the past.”

  My muscles tighten. The last thing I want is for the boss to be uneasy. “It’s not the same.”

  “I know. I can tell. And the viewers can too. This is different. Just listen.”

  As I eat the yogurt, he proceeds to read a sampling of the emails, and it’s like I’m being sprinkled with gold dust. I couldn't be happier that the new concept has gone over so well.

  After we tackle a few more items, he hands me the stack of papers. “Be sure to share the viewer comments with your lovely lady. And don’t forget—always tell her how special she is to you.”

  “Thanks, Bruce,” I say, appreciating the rare moment of candor and honest advice from the guy.

  “She’s a good one. So are you. And listen, I know you beat yourself up about the other one. But you’re right—this isn’t the same. Not one bit. Carly wasn’t a happy person. She took it out on you.”

  I’m surprised he’s so aware of the details, since I never discussed Carly with him. But then, Bruce doesn’t miss much. He might be old-school, he might print his emails, he might cringe at my occasionally hipster ways, but he’s sharp and whip-smart at his job. He sees everything and steps in when he needs to.

  “Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.”

  I head to my office, noodling on what he said. The assurance was good to hear, but as I sink down in my leather chair and flip through the emails, I’m also aware that I’ve had to reach the same conclusion, and to do so on my own terms.

  Carly is the past. She’s not my present, and she’s not my future. I can’t let whatever mistakes she or I made then dictate how I live my life now.

  And how I love.

  I can’t give the past that power.

  And I won’t.

  That knowledge fills me with a newfound certainty as I read through a few more emails.

  Most of them make me smile.

  But then I come across one that’s not quite so smiley face.

  Chris:

  Your new segment sux. It’s boring AF and obvious you just put your GF on the show to get into her pants. Go back to game talk. Not the dating game.

  David

  Ouch.

  That hurts.

  I set the page down and shift my gaze to the wall and a framed photo of a surfer gloriously riding through the barrel of a fifty-footer. The waves curl over him majestically, threatening to take him under if he doesn't ride it just so.

  Just right.

  Just like he knows how.

  Because this guy knows balance.

  I take the paper, crumple it up, and toss David’s note into the recycling bin. I’m sure it was an oversight that Bruce’s assistant printed this email for me.

  Just as I’m sure that it doesn't bother me.

  A couple weeks ago—hell, a few days ago—it would have gnawed away at my confidence, made me wonder if I was giving my all to Geeking Out, or if I was getting distracted by a girl.

  Now?

  I want the perfect girl more than I want a perfect show.

  The show is good enough. Hell, it’s great most of the time. It doesn't have to be perfect, and it doesn't have to be everything to everyone.

  I’m doing my best, and that’s all I can do.

  As I turn to my computer to work on the lineup for the next episode, my phone buzzes on my desk.

  Grabbing it, I find a message from my buddy.

  Cooper: Yo. Karaoke tonight with the crew. You still in? You bringing your new woman?

  Chris: I’m down. Let me check with her.

  Cooper: Ah, so you do admit you’re into her.

  Chris: Yeah, the cat’s out of the bag on that.

  Cooper: I knew it. I’m always right.

  Chris: If you’re always right, tell me you’ll win next weekend in Baltimore.

  Cooper: I’ll own Baltimore. Also, I’ll see your skinny ass tonight. I’m thinking Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time” ought to bring the crowd home.

  Chris: You should have been on a Broadway stage. You’re such a performer.

  Cooper: I believe you mean in a stadium. Since I was clearly a rocker in my other life.

  Chris: Such an active imagination too.

  I’m about to text McKenna when I decide I’d rather hear her voice.

  She answers on the first ring. “Hey! What are you up to?”

  Like the wave just crested, I slide into the barrel, going for it. “I got this note from a viewer. It was all about how he doesn’t like the segment we do.”

  “Oh, that sucks,” she says, sounding disappointed.

  “That was the gist of it. But here’s the thing. A few months ago, it would have gotten in my head. One little email would have made me doubt my commitment to the show. Today? I don’t give a shit.” I lean back in my chair and grin, feeling like all is right in the world.

  “You don’t?”

  I shake my head. “Don’t care. Not bothered. You know why?”

  “Why?” Her tone is curious.

  “He’s just one viewer. I can’t please everyone. I do a damn fine job at work, and that hasn’t changed since I started seeing you.”

  “Oh. That’s good that you feel that way,” she says, sounding nervous, maybe surprised.

  I get it. She’s not expecting this from me. I’ve made my concerns clear from the start. And I need to make it clear I don’t have them anymore. “What I’m trying to say is I’m over the trust issues. I’m not going to let them get in my way anymore.”

  “You’re not?”

  I laugh. “Why do you sound so surprised?”

  “Sorry. I . . . just wasn’t expecting this right now. My mind is still in work mode.”

  “No worries. We can talk tonight. It’s karaoke night. I’m going out with Cooper and some other friends. Would love to have you join us.”

  “Sure. Just text me the details.”

  My work line lights up. When I see the area code, I sit up straighter. “Shoot. That’s Zander Kendrick’s manager.”

  “Go, go. I know you’ve been waiting for this call.”

  I say goodbye and pick up the work line.

  His manager is the chattiest fellow. He’s also in town and wants to have lunch to discuss the segment. Today.

  We pick a place, and I tell him I’m on my way.

  As I head out of the office, I send McKenna a text.

  Chris: Heading to see Zander’s manager now about the segment. Gomez Hawks at eight p.m. See you there.

  She doesn't answer right away, and when I reach the restaurant, she’s only sent one word.

  McKenna: Sure.

  No exclamation point. No smiley face.

  Huh.

  I note the oddity, but I don’t focus on it. Instead, I head inside and focus on the meeting I’d been hoping to snag for a month now.

  Besides, women are hard to read, even once you’ve fallen in love with one.

  29

  McKenna

  It’s no big deal.

  I’m not rattled by that call.

  Not one bit.

  I don’t mean the viewer’s email. Chris is right on that score. You can’t let those things get to you. That comment didn’
t bother him, and it doesn’t bother me.

  I mean the BIG ISSUE.

  The “I’m over my trust issues” issue.

  My heart hammers, my pulse spikes, and holy shit, I’m sweating.

  I don’t sweat. I’m not a nervous sweat-type person. But when I tug at my pastel-yellow blouse, it feels like it’s sticking to me.

  I head to my bedroom, appraising it in the mirror as Ms. Pac-Man trudges behind. “Ugh. Yellow is my worst color. Why did I pick yellow today?”

  She slumps down on her dog bed without comment. At least she doesn’t say I told you so. Surely she’s advised me against yellow.

  Did I listen? Evidently not.

  I unbutton it furiously, missing a button and cursing. “Stupid buttons,” I mutter.

  Fumbling the traitorous button through the hole, I toss the shirt in the laundry and fan my face with my hand. Why is it so hot?

  I head to the bathroom, grab a washcloth, and blot it over my chest and under my armpits.

  “Breathe,” I tell my red-faced reflection.

  Ms. Pac-Man’s nails scratch the floor as she follows me, tilting her head quizzically.

  “What the hell is wrong with me?”

  She quirks her snout the other direction.

  “I don’t know,” I answer, my voice wobbly.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  I shuffle to my closet, snag a peach Free People top, tug it on, and force myself to take a deep breath.

  Or rather, to gulp in air like a fish out of water.

  That’s how I feel.

  Like I have gills on land.

  Like I’m flopping around on shore without legs.

  I crouch to Ms. Pac-Man, my center of gravity, and give her a hug, searching for a fixed point when my world is spinning weirdly off-kilter. “I just need to do something familiar. Something I’m used to, right?”