The Dating Proposal Page 4

  I’m not a gamer geek, but I adored retro games growing up, since my parents used to take Julia and me bowling on Saturdays, and the Silverspinner Lanes boasted all the original arcade games like Q*bert, Frogger, and, of course, both Pac-Mans.

  Last year, I took to the console after Todd left. Games passed the time, but they also distracted me. I got lost in their worlds and was able to escape from mine.

  “What other games do you like?” Hot Guy asks, and something about the question startles me. Maybe because it’s so normal, and he seems legitimately curious. Then there’s the simple fact that we’re having a conversation in the middle of an electronics store.

  “Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit, Monopoly,” I say with a completely straight face.

  He picks up the cue easily, raising an eyebrow as he asks, “Clue?”

  “Of course. And it was always Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.”

  “Interesting. Because Miss Scarlet was pretty wicked with that rope in the ballroom, if memory serves. What about Chutes and Ladders?”

  “Let’s not forget Candy Land either.”

  “What was your favorite candy destination in that game?”

  “The vintage game, right? Not that new King Candy imitator?”

  “As if I’d even be talking about that game,” he says playfully.

  I’m about to answer when he puts his hands together as if he’s praying and says in a whisper, “Please say Ice Cream Floats. Please say Ice Cream Floats.”

  I laugh with the kind of mirth I haven’t felt in a while, the kind that radiates through my whole body and turns into a huge grin. “Of course. I wanted to live in Ice Cream Floats.”

  “I was all set to build a chocolate and licorice home in Ice Cream Floats. And this reminds me that I need to stock up on the classic games too. But I don’t think they sell them here.”

  “I came here because Gadgets, Gizmos, and Geeks is closed, and that’s the only place nearby that actually fixes hard drives.” I put on my best sad face. “I was the victim of a cat hard-drive attack.”

  He pretends to be taken aback. “I’ve heard of those. How awful.”

  “It was terrible. Fur, claws, and metal everywhere.”

  “My condolences. Hopefully you at least caught it on camera so you can post it on YouTube?”

  I snap my fingers, aw-shucks-style. “If only.”

  “Next time.”

  “Or perhaps next time I will do a better job making sure the hard drive is out of his reach.”

  He shrugs confidently, quirks up his lips. “Can I see it?”

  “Um, sure.” Does he have a thing for broken hard drives? I reach into my bag where I have the drive and show him the silver device with the cracked end.

  He surveys the damage. “I can fix it.”

  I give him a quizzical look. “Seriously? You can fix a hard drive? Do you moonlight as a computer-repair guy?”

  “Not exactly. I can fix pretty much anything.”

  “That’s impressive.”

  “Want me to try?”

  I study his face, trying to figure him out. “You really want to?”

  “I do. Yeah,” he says, as if he’s digging the prospect of repairing the damaged device. “I really enjoy that kind of challenge. It’s kind of like a game to me.”

  But I don’t want to hand over a hard drive to a total stranger. “Actually . . .”

  He smiles, raises a finger. “And I bet you probably don’t want to give your hard drive to a total stranger.”

  I shrug, a little embarrassed. “Sorry. But you can’t be too careful.”

  “I hear you completely. But this is simple. And . . .” He inches closer, reaches into the pocket of his jeans, and dangles his keys. Is he going to take me for a ride? “I have the tools right here.”

  I blink, surprised. “What?”

  He waggles the keys, and I spy a tiny little tube that looks like it holds screwdrivers.

  “You carry computer-repair tools with you?”

  He smiles casually. “You never know when you might need them. I also carry a Swiss Army knife. I read 101 Things a Navy SEAL Knows.” He glances out the window of the store at Chestnut Street, teeming with pedestrians. “And I also know the café next door makes a killer espresso. I’ll fix it while we get a cup of joe.”

  Cup of joe! That’s almost like a date!

  I mean, it’s not a date.

  Obviously.

  But it’s training-wheels time. Talking to this guy as he fixes my hard drive might help me prep for when I go out with Steven from Madcap, the Lemonhead Guy, Nathaniel from Julia’s bar, and the other men I hope will come knocking on my door—not literally—once my dating prowess improves.

  “Sure,” I say, with probably way more enthusiasm than the prospect of a repair job and coffee deserves.

  There’s a big bonus to this cuppa. I’ll get to look at his handsome face while he fixes it. I mean, I’ll look at his hands, because the sight of a man using a tool is super hot.

  “By the way, I’m Chris McCormick.”

  “McKenna Bell.”

  He extends a hand.

  We make contact, and there’s something about the feel of his strong hand in mine that kind of turns me on. Maybe it’s the firm grip, or the way his eyes light up as he smiles. I want to tug him closer and plant a hot, wet kiss on his lips.

  Nothing will happen though. He didn’t ask me on a date, and I didn’t ask him either.

  But it can’t hurt that I’m thinking slightly naughty thoughts. It’s evidence I’m getting my groove back.

  Hello, groove. Nice to see you. I’ve missed you bunches.

  6

  Chris

  I’m not checking out her body.

  I’m not staring at her face. I’m focused on the task at hand. Thank God I have one, because otherwise, I’d be staring at those eyes. They’re blue with gold flecks, making them look almost hazel at times. She has all sorts of colors working in her irises, and the net effect is totally captivating.

  So is her lush mouth.

  She’s running it while I carefully screw the case back together. It’s painstaking work since it’s tiny and the screwdrivers are the size of nails.

  “I tried to fix my shower once,” McKenna says, wrapping her slender hands around a cup of coffee. Yes, even her hands are hot. Lord help me.

  “Yeah?” I glance at her hands then back at the hard drive. “How’d it go?”

  “Well, if you consider scars a good thing, it went well.”

  I look up. “Scars can be cool. I trust it went exceedingly well?”

  She lifts her chin and shows me a thin white scar on the right side of her jaw. “Then I did a fabulous job ‘fixing’ the shower.” She sketches air quotes.

  “Looks like it to me. But how exactly did the shower hit you in the face?”

  “When the door fell.” She says it so matter-of-factly.

  I blink, trying to process the enormity of everything that could have gone wrong. “I don’t know if I should be impressed you tried to fix a shower door without any fix-it skills, or impressed with your good luck in surviving the incident. Because those things are heavy.”

  “Hey! How do you know I don’t have any fix-it skills?”

  I grin. “Lucky guess?”

  “Fine. You’re right. But what else was I to do?” She shrugs, her tone light and breezy. “It wouldn’t close all the way. And that was getting me down because I like to take really hot showers. We’re talking sauna temperature. You know the type? Imagine you walk into the bathroom, and steam is everywhere, and you can barely even see the other person in the shower. Just a silhouette. Can you picture that?”

  Can I picture it? Hell, I can feel that. In my pants. “Yep,” I answer, and it comes out a little dry, a little gravelly. Because painting crazy-hot images is playing below the belt, and I bet she doesn't even realize it. Hot women shouldn’t use the word “shower” in casual conversation. It’s wholly unnecessary, a
long with “yoga pants” and “strawberries.”

  “So you tried to fix it?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on the project in front of me, rather than on images of steam rising, which lead to other things rising.

  “Yup. And then that shower door showed me who was boss.” She holds up her forearm vertically then lets it fall as she makes a kaboom sound.

  I can’t help but laugh. “And whacked you on its way down?”

  “Completely whacked. It’s kind of a miracle I’m alive, come to think of it.”

  “I’m glad you survived the shower whacking. What happened with the door though?”

  “I called my friend Andy. He fixed it for me. It works like a steamy, dreamy charm now.” She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling happily.

  I stop and take a drink of espresso.

  “Andy? So he’s Handy Andy?” I kind of hate him already. Wait. That’s dumb. I don’t feel a thing for Handy Andy who was in McKenna’s shower, that lucky bastard.

  “That’s a good one. Can you rhyme my name?”

  “Henna McKenna?” I toss out.

  “And you’ll be Chris who brings me bliss by fixing the hard drive,” she says, and I just smile at her.

  “You’re a bundle of energy,” I say as I return to my project, moving to the right side of the case.

  “And you’re a bundle of skills. What do you do when you’re not rescuing hard drives from evil cats?”

  “Admittedly, that does occupy a large portion of my day. But in the few hours I can eke out, I host a show.”

  “Like radio show or a podcast?”

  I twist the screwdriver a notch. “It’s a TV show. On WebFlix. It’s called Geeking Out.”

  She narrows her eyes and points at me, circling her finger. “You’re a geek?”

  “You say that like it doesn't compute, and yet here I am, fixing your tech in a coffee shop. I’d say that makes me a geek.”

  “You definitely don’t look like a geek.”

  I meet her eyes. They’re sparking with a glint of playfulness. “And what does a geek look like?”

  “Not like a surfer. You look like you’re going to go hang ten.”

  “I do that too. For fun.”

  She pumps a fist. “Nailed it. You totally have that vibe about you. Not that I’m pigeonholing you based on your looks. But with the Nor Cal T-shirt, it wasn’t the hardest round of Jeopardy! to play.” She imitates Alex Trebek. “What is the most likely profession of a guy with floppy hair, a not-from-a-salon tan, and casual charm?”

  I quirk up the corner of my lips. “You think I’m charming?”

  She blushes, but it disappears quickly. “You charmed my hard drive out of my hands.”

  I screw the final piece of the case back together, set down the tiny tool, drag a hand through my hair, and gesture to the repaired device. “Good as new.”

  “Wow,” she says appreciatively, picking up the drive and gazing at it in admiration. “Thank you so much. You are Mr. Fix It.”

  I puff out my chest playfully. “Why, thank you very much. I’m having T-shirts made with that saying. Want one?”

  “I do. I want one to sleep in at night.”

  And there she goes again.

  I’d love to linger in this zone, but I’m not getting the vibe that she wants to hang there with me. She’s just friendly, and there’s nothing wrong with that. I focus on the practical. “It should work perfectly. If it doesn’t, call me.”

  We exchange numbers, and when she puts her phone down, she strokes the hard drive lovingly. “Now I can access my archives when I need to. You’re my hero.”

  She leans forward in her chair and wraps her arms around me, and whoa.

  Her hair curtains my cheek. Holy hell. She smells delicious, like strawberry shampoo, and it makes me want to nibble on her neck. Kiss her throat. Lick my way up to her ear. Strawberries are my weakness, and so are friendly, outgoing women who are prettier than they realize. That’s the kind of woman she is. I bet she has no idea of the effect of her looks. She doesn’t play into them one bit.

  “I was happy to help,” I say, drawing one more clandestine inhale before we separate. Yup, just a hit, and damn, it goes to my head.

  I could get high on her.

  But I force myself to focus on what she just said. “Archives for what?”

  She waves a hand like it’s no big deal. “I run a fashion site, and I blog about fashion too. What to wear, what not to wear, that sort of thing.”

  “Can I see it?”

  She shoots me a curious look. “You want to see a fashion video?”

  I want to see her video. I want to keep talking to her. I want another excuse to sniff her hair. I guess that makes me a hair pervert. I’ll get that on a T-shirt next.

  “Yeah, I do. Show me.” I egg her on. “C’mon. Show the geek what to wear.”

  She laughs. “You already dress well. You have mastered the casual California look.”

  I nudge her with my elbow. “Show me.”

  She seems to fight off a grin. “If you insist.” Grabbing her phone, she clicks over to Instagram, where I catch a glimpse of her follower count. It’s half a mil. “You’re popular,” I say.

  “I just like to have fun and post pics. Somewhere along the way, people started following me.”

  She hits play, and within seconds I can tell she has charisma.

  She’s funny. She’s self-deprecating. She’s accessible.

  She’s exactly who she is—adorable and relatable, and so damn easy on the eyes.

  There are no two ways about it. McKenna Bell loves the camera, and the camera loves her. Too bad she’s talking about fashion. Otherwise, she’d be perfect on my show. It’s also too bad she’s talking about other guys in her video and a date some dude asked her on.

  All things considered, I’d rather this other dude not date her. Which makes me a selfish prick. But there it is.

  “You’re a natural,” I say, shaking my head in appreciation. And because I need to know her situation, I stir up the hornet’s nest, referring to a comment she made in her video. “You haven’t dated in a decade? How does that happen? You’re fun and bright, and despite your predilection for being whacked by shower doors, you’re kind of awesome.”

  “Why, thank you.” She takes a drink of her coffee, sets it down, and sighs. But it’s not an unhappy sigh. She manages a small smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard the story before. Girl is left at the altar, licks her wounds for a year, and decides to try dating again, so naturally makes it an online quest, and includes fashion tips too.”

  Instantly, I hate the guy. I bristle. “Your ex-fiancé is a complete asshole for a million reasons, but most of all because he’d have to be crazy to leave you.”

  Her eyes are soft. A sheen of wetness flickers over them. She swallows, answering quietly, “Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”

  “It’s his loss, McKenna,” I say in a fierce tone. I barely know this woman, but what kind of jackass leaves a woman the day of her wedding?

  She clears the emotion from her throat. “It’s all for the best. I’m better off without him.”

  “But he should have figured that out a week or a month before.”

  “True.” She raises her mug and offers it in a toast. “But I’ll drink to learning it before I said ‘I do.’ Besides, one of the biggest red flags was there from the get-go. He liked to steal the first sip of Diet Coke every time I opened a new can. And hello! That’s kind of a passion of mine.”

  I smile at her ability to make light of a difficult situation, lifting my mug and clinking back. “To never stealing first sips.” I take a drink of my espresso then ask a question. “And now you’re out there and dating again?” The words taste like sawdust.

  Or maybe that’s jealousy. Which makes zero sense, since I barely know her. Must be a standard territorial guy thing I’m feeling. Yeah, that has to be it.

  “I’m kicking it old-school.” She slashes her hand through the air, like she’
s making a no sign. “No apps, no online matching, no swipe this or that. I’m going to try my luck the old-fashioned way. I was asked out the other day on the street by a guy who owns a restaurant. Lucky me.”

  The smile she gives makes it clear she’s 100 percent excited for this date, and then some.

  “Lucky guy,” I say, and I mean it 100 percent.

  Her eyes lock on mine for a second, the flecks in them sparkling. “What about you? You must be inundated with date requests all the time.”

  I scoff. “I’m not on the apps.”

  “Of course,” she says quickly, as if she’s correcting herself. “You don't need to be. You probably get asked out when you walk into coffee shops.”

  She’s not wrong, but that’s not why I’m not on the apps.

  I heave a sigh, and serve up the truth. “I’m honestly not focused on that right now. I have what’s known as trust issues,” I say, trying to make light of it.

  “Ooh. Sounds fascinating.” She leans closer, her tone like those used in a 1940s detective flick. “I have those too. Tell me, Chris. What are your trust issues?”

  I picture Carly, the producer I dated at work last year. She was fun, ambitious, and fiery. Trouble was, she was also a bit vengeful. “I dated a woman I worked with for about six months. She wanted more, and I didn’t. No particular reason, but I just didn’t feel the same level of spark. It didn’t work out.”

  “Spark is critical. Or so I hear.”

  “Spark is essential. I ended things before Carly tried to take it to the next level. She didn’t take it well.”

  McKenna winces. “What did she do?”

  My gut churns as I recall the turbulence. “Subtle things. In meetings she’d shoot down all my ideas. On the set, she’d say I was doing everything wrong. She’d claim I missed her emails about how we were doing this or that segment. She’d change up the questions from viewers without telling me. Her mission was to make life as unpleasant as possible, and it worked. I was miserable while she was working on my show, and I don’t think I did my best work then, truth be told.”

  “Was there anything you could do about it?”

  I shake my head. “Maybe, but I didn’t, which wasn’t the best idea in retrospect. There are a lot of people working on the show—writers, other producers, stagehands—who depend on it. But I was so hamstrung and unsure of what to do. I didn’t want to rock the boat and cause more problems. I didn’t want to misstep and hurt her career.”