So no, the place isn’t fancy. It’s nice, with tablecloths and elegant place settings, but the lighting and décor set the mood for comfortable and casual rather than stiff and formal. The staff are friendly and professional, which is what I’ve come to expect from all the staff at Joy Universe, and the food is to die for. The restaurant is in one of the five-star resorts, and although I’d been told it’s a great place to eat—which it is—I hadn’t tried it because it’s expensive and I’ve got no problem admitting I’m tight-fisted with money. I don’t mind splashing out on occasion, but the occasion hadn’t yet arisen since I arrived at JU.
I guess tonight is the night, though. God knows, I owe Derek a meal at least, after everything that’s happened and with him lending me a car. That sounds wrong, like I’m only here in this fabulous restaurant having a wonderful time with a good-looking, intelligent, witty, amusing, kindhearted (are you getting the picture yet?) man who’s made me laugh more times than I can count since we arrived because I feel like I owe him. I don’t. I mean, I do, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because of all the reasons I listed a second ago.
Yeah, there are still moments when I have to push aside an instinctual reaction that screams for me to get away from him, usually when he turns the charm on heavy, or uses that I’m-on-duty-being-a-super-guy smile. For the record, I like his real smile better, the one he gave me while we were talking about places to eat in New York and discovered that we both love the same Indian takeout place. Turns out we actually grew up not far from each other.
Around us, the staff are cleaning up. The music’s been turned off, and they’re setting tables for tomorrow, silverware clinking as it’s laid out. It’s after midnight, the kitchen closed a while ago, and we’re the only people left. I’m actually pretty sure the kitchen was on the verge of closing when we arrived, and the only reason it stayed open was because of Derek. I would feel guilty about that, but from the way the hostess and our server lit up when they saw him, they were more than happy to work a little late if it was for him. The chef came out of the kitchen to sit with us and chat as we decided what to eat, and ended up telling us to leave it with him. The result was nothing short of fabulous.
I lean toward Derek and lower my voice. “They really love you here.”
He leans in too and also lowers his voice. “This resort is part of my district—I’m their boss. They have to love me—or at least pretend to.” He winks to show he’s joking, then looks around. “I guess we better let them finish up and get home, though.”
Sitting back in my chair, I watch him as he smiles over at our waiter and calls out cheerfully for the check. The boy and the hostess hurry to get it ready.
“I don’t think that’s it,” I say, and he turns his attention back to me, his smile that gorgeous natural one that makes me feel warm all over.
“What’s not it?”
Wow, it’s really hot in here all of a sudden. “Uh, I don’t think they love you just because you’re their boss.” I look him right in the eye as I say it, hoping he gets what I’m trying to say. Derek has a lot of natural charm and charisma, and I can see how that would draw people to him right away, but it’s not superficial. After only an hour of conversation, I can honestly say he’s supersmart, funny, and actually really sweet. I also get the feeling he’s hiding something behind the fun, charming golden boy façade he puts up—but of course I could be wrong. An hour is just an hour, after all.
His smile fades slightly, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. We stare at each other. Part of me is wondering how my feelings about him could have changed so much in such a short time. I know my initial antagonism wasn’t really to do with him so much as what I assumed he represented, but given that it was less than two days ago, and right now I’m desperately trying to stifle daydreams of future dates and cozy evenings chatting and making out in front of the TV, it still seems like a big leap.
Especially since I’m not even sure if this was really a date. Maybe he was trying to prove a point that he’s not like those guys that bullied me? Maybe this was just intended to be a friendly meal, and he’s not actually interested? It’s not like I’m anything special.
The waiter—his name is Tom—comes over with the check, and Derek and I both reach for it, then freeze.
“I’m paying,” I say firmly. “It’s the least I can do.”
Derek eyes me for a moment, then turns to Tom. “Can you give us a sec?”
Tom obediently retreats. I watch him go. “You didn’t need to send him away; this isn’t complicated. I’m paying.”
He meets my gaze steadily. “I didn’t want to discuss it in front of anyone. I said before that this place is like high school, and I wasn’t kidding. That means we all gossip like retirees playing bridge”—I grin, because that’s pretty funny—“and there’s already going to be talk because we’re eating together after our slightly rocky start—which everyone already knows about and has blown out of proportion. I didn’t think they needed details.”
He’s right. I’m a pretty private person, and given the chance, I’d rather not have people discussing the details of my life.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “You’re right, of course. But I’m still paying.”
He raises one perfect dark-blond eyebrow. “I invited you,” he points out. “I’m not in the habit of asking men on dates and then letting them pay.”
My heart soars, and a giddy feeling takes over. It is a date! It’s all I can do to keep the stupid smile off my face. “We’ll split it,” I offer, reaching for the little folder. Because I literally can’t remember if I’ve ever let a date pay for my dinner.
Is that sad? Thinking about it now, I feel like maybe it’s sad. Shouldn’t someone have bought me dinner at least once? Not let me insist on paying?
I yank the leather folder out of Derek’s reach before he can grab it, flip it open, and blink at the total. That can’t be right….
“This is…. It’s about half of what it should be.” I saw the prices on the menu. Did I add wrong?
“Employee discount” is all Derek says. I don’t look up, but I can feel his eyes on me, and I scan down the itemized check. The item prices look right, but—oh, there it is. The discount line.
“Wow, that’s some discount,” I say stupidly, then wince. When I glance at Derek, he looks faintly embarrassed.
“The best restaurants around here are part of JU,” he defends, “and the staff apply the discount automatically if they recognize me.”
I purse my lips. “Do they ever not recognize you?” It’s a rhetorical question, and he seems to get that, because he doesn’t answer—though he does flush a little. It’s really cute to see him flustered.
Because of me.
Right. He’s done all the running so far, even in the face of animosity—maybe it’s my turn to stick my neck out.
I push the folder across the table to him. “Okay, you’re right. You invited me, so you can have this one. But on our next date, I’m paying.”
Our gazes meet. “Our next date?” There’s a note of… something in his voice that brings back the giddy feeling.
“Yeah.” I rack my brain. Dinner is the most obvious option, since he works during the day, but my job makes going out for a meal at a decent hour tricky. I have Monday nights off, but I don’t want to wait that long to see him again. “Lunch,” I blurt. Fuck, I have the matinee show four days a week. The only days off are Monday, Tuesday, and… “Thursday.” A pang of disappointment strikes that it won’t be tomorrow, but maybe it’s better this way.
He smiles, the good smile, the one I like. “Lunch on Thursday,” he repeats.
Something occurs to me. “You’d better tell me if there’s a place we need to avoid.”
The satisfaction on his face fades a little, and he shrugs, pulls out his wallet, and slips a credit card into the check folder. Tom is there instantly to grab it, and as soon as he leaves, Derek says, “Pretty much anywhere we go around here,
there’s likely to be someone who recognizes me. And if we want to go further afield, then lunch on a weekday isn’t the best idea.” He seems almost tentative, and it’s so different from the man I’ve seen so far that it pisses me off.
“Nope, it’s lunch on Thursday. I’ll sort something out,” I tell him firmly, and he visibly relaxes. I hate that he was unsure, but at the same time, it makes me feel really great that he was so concerned about dating me.
Wait. That sounds wrong. He wasn’t concerned about dating me; he was concerned that I would be unhappy with the logistics of dating him.
I think.
I’m still turning the concept over in my head as we walk out to the valet stand at the front of the resort. The restaurant must have told them we were coming, because Derek’s car is waiting. I slide in and switch to thinking about the logistics of our next date.
“What time is good for lunch?” I ask as he pulls the car out of the resort forecourt and heads down the driveway to the road.
“On Thursday? I have to check my schedule, but I think one. Is that cool with you?”
I shrug. Thursday mornings we have a rehearsal, and then nothing until the evening performance at seven thirty. “One’s fine. Why don’t I give you my number, and you can let me know for sure?”
He grins at me. “Can I use your number for more than just confirming dates?”
Heat climbs up my neck and floods my face, and I know I must be red. Christ, I’ve always blushed easily, but I spend more time red-faced around this guy than anyone else I can remember. “Maybe.” I meant it to sound flirtatious, but it comes out sounding more like a parent who means no, but doesn’t want to say it for fear of incurring a tantrum.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m no Casanova, but I’m not a reclusive virgin, either. I usually have a pretty good dating life. I know how to flirt.
I pull out my phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you.”
He rattles off the digits. I put them in my phone and then send him a text. The faint ding from his pocket tells me he got it.
The rest of the ride back to my resort is silent, and I’m pretty sure it’s my fault. Our conversation over dinner was so easy and fun—but my stupid failed attempt to be flirty seems to have killed the vibe. Is he regretting the whole thing? Wondering how he can get out of our date on Thursday?
He turns off the road onto the driveway of the resort, but instead of pulling up to the entrance, he takes the road that loops around the property to the four parking lots and the three other shuttle stops.
“Where—” I begin, but he interrupts me.
“Which is the closest parking lot to your room?”
Oh. He’s being thoughtful and saving me the seven-minute (no, I didn’t time it—the receptionist told me when I checked in) walk from the main building to the building that houses my room.
“The west one,” I tell him, and then we both fall silent again as he skillfully navigates along the deserted, mostly dark road. I rack my brain for something to say. How did this happen? Twenty minutes ago I was one half of an interesting, fun conversation. How did we go from that to awkward silence?
It has to be the idea of dating that’s turned us into mere acquaintances with little in common. Right? Until he confirmed that we were on a date, and I asked him on another one, everything was fine. After that, it all went downhill.
Wait… he knew all along that we were on a date. I was the one who wasn’t sure what he thought it was. Does that mean this is all me? Am I the reason for the awkwardness?
I’m saved from further introspection (although I suspect it’s going to keep me up most of the night) when Derek pulls into the west parking lot and finds a spot at the far end. The lot is pretty well-lit, but back in this corner there are more shadows.
I undo my seat belt. I’m almost desperate to get out of the car and away from this tension, but at the same time, I’m terrified that if I leave it like this, I’m going to get a text from Derek, canceling our date. What can I say to make it all better?
Derek’s hand on my face makes me jump.
“Whoa! Sorry, I didn’t mean….” He starts to pull away, but I grab his hand and hold it against my cheek. I like having him touch me.
Is this weird? Maybe he was just trying to get my attention and didn’t actually want to hold my face.
I drop my hand to my lap, giving him the opportunity to pull back. My face is hot, and I’m thankful for the dim light. He can probably still see that I’m blushing, but not exactly how red I am.
His fingers lightly stroke my cheek.
My breath stutters. I slowly turn to him. His face is closer than I expected, and there’s a soft smile on his lips. Even in the dimness of the car, I can see how warm the expression in his eyes is.
I swallow. His smile grows.
“I love when you blush,” he says. “It’s so—”
“Sweet?” I interrupt acidly. He shakes his head.
“Hot.” The word sits between us. Hot? Does he mean literally? Because, yeah, my skin gets hot when I—
Derek leans in and kisses me, and I get it. Hot. Derek thinks it’s hot when I blush. Really?
Also, man can he kiss.
I gotta be honest, the next few minutes kind of blur out. I’m too focused on Derek’s mouth on mine, his hands, his body—because my hands get busy too. The only words I can actually think are adjectives: warm, hard, wet, silky….
I’ve got my hands in his pants (and can I just say wow?) when it finally occurs to me that as cushy as Derek’s car is, it’s not roomy enough for us to fuck—well, not comfortably. I jerk back from his kiss. “Not here,” I pant. Crap, Kev’s likely to be back at our room by now. He was saying earlier that he was exhausted, not having had a day off, and wanted an early night. “Your place?” He’s gotta live in Joyville, right? That’s what, half an hour away?
Maybe we can get a room. We’re at a resort. I’m sure he gets an employee discount here too.
Derek sighs and pulls back, stroking my chest under my polo one last time before drawing his hand out. I miss it instantly.
“You’d better get back to your room,” he says. It takes a moment for me to register what he means, and then it’s like a slap in the face.
He doesn’t want to have sex with me.
I thought our kisses were incredible. I was completely caught up in the moment, in kissing him, touching him. I thought he felt the same.
And he was… what, humoring me? Or is this just another way to show me that I’m not worth anything? If the guys who bullied me all those years ago had been gay, would I have already faced this moment?
My face is hot again, but this time it’s with humiliated fury. I don’t say a single word as I open the door and get out, my gut churning.
“Trav?” Derek sounds startled, taken aback. I slam the car door, do up my jeans (and damn him, even though right now I hate him, I’m still hard, and it’s hellish uncomfortable), and stalk in what I think is the direction of my room. I’m not entirely sure, because I’ve never actually been to the parking lot, but I don’t want to delay long enough to look at the signs and orient myself.
Behind me, Derek gets out of the car. “Trav!” Quick footsteps. Is he following me? Why? I don’t want to continue this, I just want to go curl up in a ball of misery on my bed. It’s not fucking fair. I finally begin to think that maybe not all jock-frat-popular guys are basically alike. I finally let one get close, and bam! He proves that I was right all along.
And I really liked him.
I push the thought aside as the footsteps get closer. I am not going to run. I am not going to let him see he got to me.
He grabs my arm and turns me toward him. “Trav, hey, aren’t you going to say good n—” The words stop sharply as he sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
What. A. Douche.
“What’s wrong?” I’m actually pretty proud of myself for the way I sound—cold, disdainful.
“Yeah. Are you… mad?”
He seems confused, and that cracks my anger a bit, because of all the things I’ve thought Derek to be, when I first met him, when I was crushing on him, and right now, I’ve never thought he was stupid.
So… could I have jumped the gun here? Maybe misunderstood?
“I….” I really don’t know what to say. If he’s playing me, I don’t want to give him more ammunition. On the other hand, if he’s genuinely interested and I’ve somehow got the wrong end of the stick, I don’t want to push him away.
I don’t want to push him away.
I don’t know him well, but nothing I’ve seen or heard indicates that he’d play this sort of cruel game.
Fuck. Time to be brave.
“I am mad,” I confess. “I thought we were heading”—toward a fuck? That sounds crass—“um, I thought we were….” Oh my God, I’ve lost my words. Where is my ability to construct a sentence?
Fortunately, Derek seems to get what I’m trying to say.
“Oh. Yeah, me too. But then I started thinking about the logistics. You have a roommate, right? And my place isn’t that close… and to be honest, I’ve been up over twenty hours and I need to be up again at six, and… this sounds kind of dumb, but I don’t want our first time to be half-assed when I’m tired.” He winces. He’s right, it does sound kind of lame, like something out of a rom-com, but it’s also… nice. It makes my stomach flip and my chest tighten.
He wants it to be special when we have sex the first time. And even though I’m still so hard I’m standing funny, I want that too. Derek’s awesome. This isn’t a one-nighter. And if he’s tired, he’s not going to be able to appreciate my best moves. I’m a dancer, I’m really flexible, and I don’t want to bring my A game if—
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