The Dating Proposal Read online

  Oh God. What I want now is him. I want him to shove that plate of swoon-worthy quesadillas aside and make me swoon, not just with words, but with his hands and tongue.

  “That’s what I want. Just something light and easy,” I whisper.

  “I could do light and easy, if we dated,” he says, scooting closer, his thigh now touching mine. I die from pleasure, every single molecule in my body turning liquid. I don’t want to ride the brakes any longer.

  “I could do the same,” I say, and I’m aflame, lit bright from longing.

  He gazes at me, his voice low and husky. “You know what I’d do next in this scenario?”

  “Tell me.” I wait on the edge of desire for his answer.

  19

  Chris

  I could say I don’t know what comes over me. But that’d be a lie. It’d be a weak-ass cop-out too. I do know what comes over me.

  Desire. Lust. Want.

  Sometimes it’s that simple.

  We’re teasing and toying, playing at the edge of a game. But I’m a gamer, and I know sometimes you have to go for it. You jump off the cliff, you run into gunfire, you rocket-launch into the stars.

  You don’t know what’s on the other side. You don’t know if you’ll make it to the next level or die a brutal, pixelated death.

  You know the risks, and you do it anyway.

  I’ve wanted to touch her since I met her. That’s how attraction works. I knew it in seconds that day in the store, and I’ve wanted her more and more every time we’ve connected. Every time I see her, talk to her, text her.

  I can feel the heat from her body. I can smell that strawberry shampoo that drives me wild. “I’d run my hands through all this luscious hair,” I whisper.

  Her breath hitches.

  My skin sizzles.

  Lust grabs hold of me. I thread my fingers through the silky waterfall of chestnut strands, and she’s a cat, arching her back, purring under my touch. This woman. My God, I want to be the one to show her what it’s like to be wanted.

  “Don’t stop,” she murmurs.

  It’s a plea, and there’s a warm buzzing sensation taking over my body. Wait. It’s way more than warm. Make that white-hot. “And if we dated,” I say as my fingertips trail down her neck and she trembles against my touch, “our first kiss would surprise both of us.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because we wouldn’t expect it to happen today . . . now,” I whisper, and her lips part. Her eyes blaze with a desire that matches my own.

  “I definitely didn’t think it was going to happen now.” She grabs my face in both her hands and yanks me toward her, and I laugh, loving, absolutely loving, how much she wants this.

  But I want to kiss her, not the other way around.

  “Let me kiss you,” I say.

  She lets go of me, huffs, grumbles, then commands, “Fine, but do it now.”

  “If you insist,” I say, cupping the back of her neck.

  “I insist.” She shudders, and that’s another thing about McKenna I note and file away. I put it in my drawer of Absolutely Awesome Responses to Kissing.

  My lips brush hers, tasting her sweetness, and her want too. She tastes like she’s vibrating, humming with the need to get closer.

  She murmurs as I sweep my lips over hers, and that sound sends a jolt of lust down my spine, making me picture all sorts of permutations of that sound and possible next steps—grabbing her hand, taking her out of here, taking her to my place, having my way with her, making her feel so damn good.

  Like she deserves.

  Like those idiots she’s dated so far could never make her feel.

  The thought of other guys even having the chance to kiss her rouses the caveman in me. I ratchet up the kiss, harder, deeper, like I’m telling her with my lips that this could lead to hot, late, dirty nights.

  But I know this is only hypothetical, like we’re playing a game.

  I know in a bone-deep way we aren’t going there today.

  I know today is for first steps, for testing, trying.

  Breaking the kiss, I pull away slowly, taking my time so I can register the look on her face. Her eyes are hooded, hazy; her lips are bee-stung and parted.

  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 communic
ations 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?”