The What If Guy Page 5
He gestures from him to me and back again. “This is newish to me. And I kind of had this moment in the store where I wasn’t sure what to do. Like, what’s the protocol? Do I ask for her number? Or is there a process I don’t know about? Like, do I get on Tinder and check geographic proximity? Run a scanner over her to see if I can detect levels of interest?”
“They’d have been high,” I reassure him, reassured myself.
He pats his chest. “Sky-high here. Anyway, I rarely use any of those apps,” he says, adjusting his chair, scooting it a tad closer to the table and me. “My friends made me get online a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t even opened my profile. So, the Made Connections and other dating apps are pretty new to me.”
He’s not the first guy to claim he’s new to the apps. The skeptic in me says it’s a line a guy uses when he wants a woman to think she’s special so she’ll sleep with him. But in this case, I kind of already want to sleep with him. And also, he seems legit, like he’s not afraid to make fun of himself, which is endearing.
“I’ve used the popular dating apps for the past several months,” I say, figuring I’ll be up-front and honest, because honesty is sexy. “But I only learned of Made Connections after some of my colleagues told me about it shortly after I met you.”
He points from me to him, question marks in his eyes. “Is this where we have the whole what do you do conversation?”
I make a shooing motion, flicking that topic away. “Nah. Let’s talk about more interesting things. But just to get it over with—I run a lifestyle website.” I don’t mention that I’m reviewing the app, because I’d have tried to find him whether or not I was testing the app. As far as I’m concerned, this date is for me.
“And to get it over with,” he echoes with humor, “I’m in media finance and management. Moving on.” Logan acts like he’s also grateful to zip past the expected but boring topic.
I segue back to apps, poking around to see what I can glean about this guy I like. “If you’re not on the apps much, how did you hear about Made Connections?”
“My twin sister told me about it on Friday.”
“Twins. That seems like it could either be fun or crazy-making.”
“Both. It’s completely both. She knows how to rib me like no one else, but she’s awesome—we’re great friends. We play on a co-ed softball team together with some of my buds.”
“And since she told you about the app, does that mean you told her about me?” I can’t resist fishing. Hearing these details is like drinking a feel-good elixir.
He smirks, his eyes twinkling. “I might have mentioned you at lunch on Friday. And, let’s see, how did she put it when I gave her the story?” He stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to recall the conversation. “I believe she called me pathetic and commanded me to try the app, at which point my buds seconded her, saying something along the lines of ‘Do it, do it now.’ Like I said, I felt pretty dumb for not getting your number that day. I wanted to, then my phone rang, and it was my kid’s school, and I had pickup that day. But let’s not talk about exes or schedules.”
The elixir spreads to every molecule in my body, setting off a buzz. I love that he’s confident enough to pull back the curtain, to let me see the details of how this date came to be. “You’re normal. Human. Hey, I didn’t ask for your number either, and I should have. But look on the bright side—you have terrific friends.”
“I do.” He leans closer, shaking his head almost like he’s surprised at something. “You have gorgeous eyes, Bryn.” He holds up a hand helplessly, like he can’t quite believe those words came out of his mouth. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”
My skin tingles. My stomach flips. “Like many people, I enjoy compliments, and I especially enjoy them from men that I really wanted to see again.”
“Good. Then let me add that you look absolutely fucking stunning tonight, and those boots are incredible.” His gaze roams over me, and I embrace the compliment, kicking one high-heeled leather-clad foot back and forth.
“And you look as good in jeans and a Henley as you did in a suit.”
“Thanks,” he says with a grin, pushing up the sleeves of his Henley the slightest bit.
My eyes pop when I catch sight of his skin. “Nice ink.”
His gaze drifts down to a lotus flower design on his forearm, as if he just remembered it was there. Running a thumb across the pattern, he grins. “It’s sort of new. I got it a year ago. Always wanted ink though.”
“It’s beautiful and manly at the same time. I love it,” I say, reaching to touch his arm. His breath hitches when I run my finger along the intricate curved lines. “It looks good on you. Really good.”
Who is this bold woman inhabiting me? This woman hasn’t come out to play at night like this in some time. But this daring woman is me. This is how I am at work, and it’s thrilling to be this way with a guy too. To be direct, to tell him what I like.
That voice of worldly wisdom chimes in.
Don’t be afraid to go after what you want.
Oh yes, Mama, I am going after it. I don’t need a man, but do I ever want this one.
He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Would you like to just go home with me right now?” He’s laughing, but I can tell he means it. I can tell, too, that he’s not pressuring me—that he’s simply putting his cards on the table, and I like that.
But while I kind of do want to go home with him, I’m not ready to strut out of here yet to do the horizontal tango. “Why don’t we have that drink first, and maybe a little later you can ask me that question again?” Gently, I kick the toe of my knee-high boot against his leg, exposing more of my thigh thanks to my short skirt. “We’ll see if you still get the answer I would have given you now.”
He mimes grabbing a pencil, writing something down. “Note to self: ask Bryn a very important question in a little while,” he mutters as if to himself.
I set my chin in my hand, and I meet honesty with honesty. “I told my friends about you too.”
The corner of his lips curves up. “Is that so?”
“One of them called you Mr. Lunch Box.”
He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nicknames are good.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t know your real name. We had to call you something.”
“Fair enough. We called you Snoopy Lover. That was my sister’s nickname for you.”
I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit. “I like that you told them about me.”
“It didn’t take much for me to serve it all up. They knew the whole tale an hour or so after I met you.”
“You mean, right after we nearly pummeled each other for the lunch box?”
He shoots me a wry grin. “You did look like you’d be fierce in a fight.”
“I’m terrifying.” I hiss and brandish my nails as if they’re claws. “I’d have broken out all my street-fighting skills to take you down.”
He shrugs playfully. “I probably wouldn’t have objected to that. What other fighting styles do you know, just so I’m prepared?”
I press my finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t be silly. A woman doesn’t give up all of her secrets. But yes, I do have my arsenal. And maybe someday I’ll tell you which ones.”
“First off, I love that you can fight. Second, I’m glad you didn’t try to take me down, because those boots are sexy as sin but look lethal as hell, and third, I’m psyched that my buds called me pathetic and made me get on the app, because I’m having a great time with you tonight.”
Those tingles? They sweep faster through me. They race along my skin. “Me too, Logan. Me too.”
He scrapes a hand across his jaw, his expression a bit nervous. Or maybe it’s not nerves, but a sense of freedom from this unbridled honesty. “You posting on Made Connections. Me posting on it. It’s sort of . . .”
“Kismet?”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. It does feel a little like kismet.”
When she leaves, Logan lifts his glass, and I do the same.
“To moments,” he says. “To moments that might lead to more moments.”
The tingles inside me multiply once more. “And to not missing them.”
I take a sip, and my taste buds bow down and thank me for ordering this delicious drink. I actually moan out loud. “Mmm, that is delish.” I lick the corner of my lips, and when my eyes lock with his, I see that he’s watching me, his irises darkening.
“Yes, delicious,” he says, his voice a little hazy.
I don’t think he’s talking about the drink. I think he’s talking about the way my tongue just teased the corner of my mouth.
A part of me wants to end this date right now and cut to the next part of the night.
But I also don’t want to miss the dance. The fox-trot to the bedroom, if that’s where we’re going, should be danced to completion. “So, how did the lunch box go over?”
He gives a thumbs-up. “I’m dad of the year.”
“Excellent,” I say, taking another drink. “And she’s seven?”
He nods. “Yes, I’m divorced, and have been for two years.”
“Good to know. Because sometimes a guy says he is and then you meet him and it turns out, oh, he’s actually ‘separated.’ But by ‘separated,’ he means still living in the same house with his wife.”
Logan recoils. “That is not at all separated. That’s more like dating while deceiving.”
I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”
“My ex is definitely the ex. She’s out of the house and already with someone else. And that’s why it ended.” He heaves a sigh. “Sorry, was I not supposed to say that? Is that too much? I haven’t gone on a lot of dates.”
I laugh, then reach a hand across the table and set it on his. “I’m fine with that, and I think at this point in my life—I’m thirty-two—”
“Same.”
“—that I’d rather just be direct. I’m divorced too. He was jealous of anything I did without him, and he said that’s why he cheated.” I give a WTF shrug. “He’s with her now.”
“Mine said if I’d been home at five instead of seven, everything would have been different,” he says, sharing the what-the-fuckery. Logan lifts his glass again. “Their losses.”
I clink once more. “Our gains.” I lift the glass, then stop midair. “Actually, let’s drink to kismet.”
His smile is wildly sexy as he says, “I will definitely drink to that.”
6
Logan
This is . . . refreshing.
Though “refreshing” isn’t quite the right word.
Refreshing is a drink of water after a hard run.
A healthy salad after a few days of pizza.
This date is not a salad.
But it is refreshing as hell to talk to a woman like Bryn.
She’s sexy and direct. She’s flirty and bold. And most of all, she seems honest.
Or honest enough for a night or two of fun.
And that works for me, since I’m not looking for more. Honesty, though, is a prerequisite. Without it, I’m outta there.
The guy on the piano taps out a crooner tune. As the notes wrap around us, Bryn and I chat about music. She tells me she loves pop, from Greyson Chance to 5 Seconds of Summer, and I tell her I dig old standards like Gin Joint plays. Still, I admit that I’m also that wannabe hip guy who loves to find obscure new bands on Spotify that no one has heard of, like Daredevil Pigeons Circle My Sidewalk.
“And their names must be intensely weird and make little sense, clearly,” Bryn says darkly.
“Of course. That’s a given. Also, on this channel, there are no band names fewer than five words long permitted. Though, in all fairness, I did listen to a new punk band called The Incident and Accident, and that was four words. But I was so irritated over the lack of a ‘the’ before ‘Accident’ that I turned it off.”
“It really would have sounded better with a ‘the.’ It needed symmetry. I support your decision to tune it out.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re in the same camp,” I say with a laugh.
We talk about the city next, and the best drinks in Manhattan, till the server brings us another round.
After we toast again, I ask Bryn something I’ve been curious about. “So, the lunch box thing. What’s that all about?”
“I like kitsch . . .”
Her sentence comes out unfinished. Is there more to it?
I push a little bit, eager to understand her. “Any reason?”
“Ah, but isn’t there always a reason?” She doesn’t continue the thought, and something about the set of her shoulders tells me that we might be treading on ground she doesn’t want to walk across right now.
Fine by me. I back off. “Listen, let’s not make this hard. Let’s just have fun. We don’t have to talk about it.”
She smiles softly. “It was my mom’s thing. Vintage kitsch. That’s why I like it. She had a lot of retro stuff, and we used to visit garage sales and pick things out together.”
We used to.
That tells me something about her mom, but maybe something Bryn doesn’t want to share in any more detail. “It’s a connection to her, then,” I say, keeping it simple.
“Yes, it is. Were you worried that it might mean I had a little-girl complex?” She asks it a bit coy and flirty.
“Now that you mention that,” I say, scratching my jaw as if I’m just considering this possibility, “I am glad you didn’t skip in here sporting pigtails.”
“And licking a big rainbow lollipop while using my lunch box as my purse,” she says in a singsong tone.
“Nothing against pigtails and lollipops.” I let my eyes travel up and down her frame. “But I like the grown-up Bryn look.” Since we aren’t mincing words, I go for the full truth, making a circle in the air around her. “I am digging the whole sexy vibe you have going on. The way you dress. The way you flirt. It’s all working.”
She dips her face, then whispers an incredibly sexy thank you. “Same to you, Logan.”
Lust sparks across my skin. I lift a hand and reach toward her hair, fingering the soft chestnut strands. “And I like the way your hair falls over your shoulder.”
Shuddering, she lets her gaze drift to my hair. “I like the way yours invites my fingers to run through it.”
Holy fuck.
This woman is on fire.
Sure, it’s been a while. Yes, I haven’t had a date like this in ages. But some things are indeed like riding a bike. Talking to an interesting woman, telling her you want her? Turns out that’s easy.
And I’m going to have to revise my definition of “refreshing,” because this is absolutely fucking refreshing.
It’s energizing. It’s thrilling. It’s all I want to do tonight. I run my finger across her collarbone. “Another thing I like is the way your shirt falls off your shoulder and shows off that little bit of skin that I just want to kiss.”
“Is that all you want to do to it?”
I inch closer, whispering near her ear, “I’d like to bite that skin, nibble on your shoulder. Use my teeth.”
A soft moan floats past her lips. I let my eyes travel along her body. “One more thing. I like the sneak peek of your legs,” I say, gesturing to the flesh of her thighs, then to her mouth. “And I like your lips. I’d like to know how they feel on mine.”
“Would you now?” She runs a finger across her lower lip, then stretches her arm to me, brushing that finger across my lips.
I bite it.
She gasps.
I am officially a furnace, and I need to get out of here with this woman ASAP. “But you know why I like all of that, Bryn?” Our faces are inches apart as the music plays and glasses clatter, and heat wraps around me. “I like the things you say. I lik
e the way I feel with you. And I’d like to ask you that question again.”
“Ask me that question.” Her eyes darken, locking with mine.
“Would you like to go home with me right now?”
I wait.
But not for long.
She parts her lips, runs her tongue over her teeth, then nods. “Yes.”
I’m ready to leap from the chair and jetpack to my place.
“But there’s something I want to tell you,” she adds.
I tense. Shit. This is the moment. This is the moment where she confesses that she likes to fuck oranges while wearing a Nixon mask. That happens on dates, right? I should have prepped. Should have girded myself for every damn thing that could go wrong. Because that’s what happens with relationships—they go south, they go sour, they curl up and die.
I do my best to brace for whatever’s coming. “Sure. Tell me.”
In a soft but certain voice, she says, “I’m not into missionary position.”
I blink. I was not expecting that little nugget of sexiness to fall into my lap.
But it’s here. And I like it. And my dick loves it too. “Duly noted. There are plenty of other positions,” I say, grinning wildly because we are already talking about how we like it, something my ex never wanted to discuss, but something I’ve very much wanted to put on the table. “Any in particular that you do like? Or do you want me to discover them?” I ask, and I hope she wants the same things I do.
Her eyes twinkle. “Let’s see if this aids in your discovery. I don’t like missionary, and I don’t like being on top.”
I believe I know what’s behind door number three.
Bryn wants to be dominated.
And that’s what I want to do to her.
I pay the bill, take her hand, and speak softly in her ear as I walk her out of Gin Joint. “I’d like to put you on your hands and knees.”
“And will you do bad things to me?”
“Bad things that make you feel very, very good.”
She shivers, sliding closer to me, giving her yes to all the good and bad things with her body sealed to mine.