The Dating Proposal Page 6

  “What were you listening to? Wait. Don’t tell.” He pretends to be a swami, reading the cards. “An audiobook. I bet you like Kristin Hannah.”

  “Everyone likes Kristen Hannah,” I say with a smile.

  “A podcast, then? Something political?”

  I cringe.

  “Completely agree on that. How about one of those cold-case podcasts? I love those.”

  I shake my head. “Just music.”

  He moves next to me. “There’s no such thing as just music. Music is everything. My ex and I used to love going to concerts.”

  Hold on.

  Did he just mention his ex? In the first minute of a date? I might be rusty, but I feel like that’s not how dating works.

  “Is that so?”

  He nods, a sad smile crossing his face. “Panic! at the Disco. Ed Sheeran. KT Tunstall. You name it.”

  “How about Adele?” I toss out, a little sarcastically.

  He shakes his head, forlorn. “I tried to get her tickets for her birthday. Sold out.”

  “Wow. She must have been bummed.” This is so not how dating works. I am so turned off. I don’t think I’ve ever been less turned on in my life.

  “Jenny loved Adele.” He shakes his head, seeming to snap out of it. “Crap. Sorry. My shrink says I need to stop focusing on my ex. I have to move forward.”

  Great, I’m his therapy homework. Go find a nice girl, ask her out, and take her on a date. Prove to yourself that you’re starting to get over Jenny.

  He gestures to my phone. “Let me try again. What were you listening to?”

  I vow to try again too, to wipe the slate clean. “Billie Holiday. I love her. ‘A Sailboat in the Moonlight’ is my jam.”

  “Yes! She’s great. ‘You Go To My Head,’ ‘Embraceable You,’ ‘These Foolish Things’ . . .”

  Holy smokes. He knows Billie Holiday. I’m so glad I gave him another shot. “Those are my favorites, especially ‘These Foolish Things.’ That’s the best.”

  He sings a line from the bluesy number, and I croon the next one, and soon we’re doing a duet.

  This is fun. This is what I missed. This is dating.

  When the song is over, I smile. “Look at us. We can totally form a duo.”

  He smiles, but his lips quiver. His eyes are wet, and he drops his head in his hands. “Jenny loved Billie Holiday so much.”

  I sigh, pat his back, and tell him it’s all going to be okay and that someday he’ll stop missing her so much.

  Date number one is officially a bust.

  11

  McKenna

  My timing is impeccable.

  I do not want to miss a chance to see Chris walk across the sand, so there’s no reason for me to be on time when I can be early.

  Besides, considering how the therapy session—I mean, date—went, I see nothing wrong with enjoying a little eye candy. After all, I couldn’t enjoy the eye candy of Steven. He was unappetizingly soggy with tears.

  I park along Ocean Beach, get out of my car, and wait. I try my best to look busy, fiddling with my phone and checking compartments in my purse, but when Chris appears on the horizon, surfboard in hand, wet suit tucked under his arm, I freeze.

  I should pretend I’m not watching him. But it’s impossible not to. I didn’t look away during that scene in Casino Royale either, when Daniel Craig emerged from the water. Chris wears board shorts, low on his hips. I watch as he walks through the sand, closer, closer, and there, now I can say without a shadow of a doubt I would like to lick all those water droplets off his chest and his abs and then run a hand down his body to sear into my memory the feel of that firm kind of outline.

  He’s lickable. He’s kissable. He’s chat-up-able.

  He catches my gaze, and I should be embarrassed. I should act as if I’m not staring, but there’s this fluttery feeling inside me, and I want to hold on to it, especially because he’s looking at me and not letting go either. Those green eyes of his are the definition of dreamy.

  Soon, he’s mere feet from me, in all his glistening, ocean-soaked glory, a scratched-up surfboard by his side. Neither one of us says anything for a few seconds, and it’s the kind of silence that’s filled with unsaid things.

  Like, Can I touch your chest?

  And, yeah, that’s probably not cool.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.”

  “Thanks for meeting me here,” he says, as a wet shock of hair falls across his forehead. He pushes it back.

  “Thanks for being a surfer,” I say, then I want to kick myself for coming across so googly-eyed.

  “No problem.” He flashes me a grin and walks to his car. He stows the wet suit in the trunk then slides the board into the rack on the roof, stretching his arms to lock it in place. My God, this is better than Tumblr. This is almost like the best parts of Tumblr weren’t shut down.

  “I have the bills. You sure you want to do this in plain sight?”

  I return to our routine and do my best to stop perving on the man who’s already said he has trust issues and isn’t dating. “No, man. I’m gonna take you down a dark alley. Now, c’mon.”

  He laughs, and I reach into my purse and hand him the screwdriver. He clutches it to his chest. “I missed you, little buddy.”

  “Okay, that’s it. Forget the whole surfer mystique. You’re one hundred percent geek.”

  He winks. “Told you so.” He smiles then runs a hand through his wet hair. There’s something so effortless about the way he moves, so natural. I don’t think he’s even aware of the effect he has on women. Of the effect he has on me.

  I put on my best cheery face so it’s not totally obvious I was checking out every single line, divot, dip, and hard-AF muscle in his body. “How were the waves?”

  “Great. I surfed, and my buddy Cooper went for a run.”

  “So you sort of worked out together, and sort of not.”

  He taps his nose. “Bingo.” He clears his throat. “How was your date?” His voice is stiff again, as if the words taste like vinegar. His reaction makes me a little bit happy. Fine, a lot happy. But I’m not ready to let on yet, so I stay in the friend zone.

  “Let’s just say I had to go home and wash the salty tears out of my shirt before they stained.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “How so?”

  “He spent most of the time crying over his ex-wife.”

  Chris cringes. “Ouch, that’s brutal.”

  “Indeed. I hope to track down his therapist and demand half of her last session fee.”

  “Want me to tell her what you did to my screwdriver? That might intimidate her.”

  “That’d be grand. I’d appreciate that so much.”

  “I guess this means he won’t be getting a second date.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. But Hayden—she’s one of my good friends and my next-door neighbor—has a guy for me.”

  His jaw ticks, and then he smiles. “Awesome. Hey, any chance we could talk later? I have a business thing I wanted to discuss with you. But I should probably wash the sand off first. Dinner? It’s on me.”

  I’m thrown.

  A little flummoxed.

  I can’t imagine what he wants from me, but I definitely want dinner with him.

  So I say yes.

  12

  Chris

  “Stare much?”

  As McKenna peels off, I turn around to see my buddy Cooper jogging toward me on the sand. He probably ran eight miles, like he usually does.

  “Not at your skinny ass.”

  He scoffs and flexes an insanely buff arm. “Please. There is nothing skinny about me.”

  He’s right. The dude is the starting quarterback for the San Francisco Renegades, and he’s fit as a fiddle. As he should be.

  He tips his chin in McKenna’s direction. “Did she turn you down?”

  I play dumb. “What are you talking about?”

  “The woman you were gawking at. Hello?” He waves in the direction of her car.
“I saw you as I was jogging back. You were ogling her like you wanted to bang her.”

  “Classy.”

  “Just like you, man,” he says, clapping my shoulder, his breath coming fast now that he’s stopped running. “So what’s the deal?”

  I shrug, making absolutely nothing of it. “We have a business meeting later. She’s a cool gal.” Yup, I’m the king of nonchalance delivery.

  “Translation: you dig her.”

  “She was returning my screwdriver.”

  He laughs, clutching his stomach, doubling over. “That’s a good one. That’s the best one.”

  “Whatever.” But I’m laughing too. “I fixed her hard drive but forgot a screwdriver.”

  He holds up one hand, cackling more. “Hold on. I can’t handle the sheer level of innuendo in what you just said.”

  I concede his point. “There is a lot of it in that statement, I’ll admit. But why don’t you break it down line by line, like I know you want to.”

  He bites out the words between laughs. “Hard. Drive. I bet you want to—”

  “You’re such a dick.”

  He sets his hand on the roof of my car. “Of course I am. And of course you’d say the same thing to me if I claimed I was dropping off a hard drive.”

  “Speaking of dropping things off, didn’t you bring some of your patented chocolate chip cookies to your friend Violet at her hair salon a couple of weeks ago?”

  His expression turns stern. “No innuendo about Vi.”

  I smirk. “Of course. There was nothing more to the baked goods gift. Nothing at all. Nothing whatsoever.”

  He furrows his brow. “I’ve known her since I was six. She’s my best friend’s sister. And she’s awesome. As in, the coolest woman ever.”

  “Could you make it any more obvious you’re into her?”

  He stares at me like I’ve grown antlers. “You’re crazy.”

  I head around to the driver’s side and stare at him over the roof of the car. “Like I said, you’re into her, and one of these days, it’s going to hit you like a ton of bricks. Or like the Dallas D-line sacking you.”

  He shakes a finger at me as he gets into the passenger seat. “Take that back. Take that blasphemy back.”

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Fine. I take it back. You do know I never want to see you sacked.”

  He exhales. “Nor do I.”

  Under my breath I mutter, “It hurts my fantasy football rankings. That’s why.”

  He rolls his eyes as I turn on the engine. “And . . . you’re a dick,” he says, as I pull away from the beach. “What are you meeting with her about? The woman you supposedly don't want to nail?”

  “I have this idea about having her do a little segment on my show.”

  “I bet that’ll work out real well for you.”

  “Why won’t it?”

  “You’re into her, man. And you’re all about the no-entanglement-at-work rule.”

  “Then it’s a good thing I won’t get entangled with her.”

  That rule exists for a damn good reason, no matter how much I want to nail her. Because there’s nothing supposedly about that.

  13

  Chris

  McKenna shakes her head as she surveys the menu. “I’m in serious trouble with myself.”

  I lift a brow in question. “Why’s that?’

  She gestures around us to the hidden paradise of Fritz’s Gourmet Fries, tucked away on a side street a few blocks from Fillmore. “How did I not know about this place? I should be shunned. Seriously. Shunned and locked up.” She holds out her hands as if I’m going to cuff her wrists. The prospect is downright appealing, and I’m not into that sort of thing. I’m more of a whatever-the-woman-wants-the-woman-should-get guy.

  I reroute my thoughts to the topic at hand. “It’s pretty bad not to know about this slice of heaven. But then again, I’d like to think I’ve now introduced you to nirvana.”

  She slaps the menu on the table with panache. “This is the Garden of Eden. I want it all.”

  “As I say, you can never go wrong with fries.”

  “Fries are literally never a mistake.”

  “Nor are forty-seven varieties of dipping sauces.” Fritz’s Gourmet Fries is no doubt the best-kept secret. I stumbled across it a few years ago and have been addicted ever since.

  McKenna scans the list of sauces I’ve already memorized—pesto mayo, spicy yogurt peanut, creamy wasabi tapenade, spicy lime, roasted red pepper, and so on.

  “They all sound delicious.” She sounds as if she’s in a trance. Her blue eyes are hazy with fry-sauce lust. “Which is your favorite?”

  “If I told you my favorite French fry dip was ketchup, would you think less of me?”

  She stares at me as if she’s studying my face. “One, I wouldn't believe you.”

  “Is that so, Doubting Thomas?”

  “It’s impossible to like ketchup best when you have all these choices, especially when you can have creamy wasabi tapenade. Say you’re sorry. Say you’re sorry right now for that slight to the world of clever sauces.”

  Laughing, I lean back in my chair. “Fine. Sorry, sauce,” I say, like a kid who’s not sorry, but is forced to apologize. “But wait till you try the ketchup.”

  “It’s just ketchup.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. It’s not just ketchup.”

  “What is it, then? Magical elixir ketchup?”

  “Sort of.” I lean in closer and drop my voice to a dirty whisper. “It’s sinfully good.”

  She nibbles on the corner of her lips. “Like, orgasmically good?”

  Holy hell. She went there, and I like it. The way she says that word, like it’s intriguing and fascinating, is a jolt of lust delivered straight to my groin. Then again, it’d be pretty hard for her to say “orgasmic” and for me not to be aroused, so c’est la vie. “Yes, it’s orgasmic ketchup.”

  She turns, raises a hand as if talking to the imaginary waiter, then adopts a French accent. “Garçon, I’ll have a dozen ketchups, s’il vous plaît. With ten to go.” She turns back to me, drops the accent, and with a straight face, explains, “One can never have too much orgasmic ketchup.”

  I stroke my chin. “Hmm. I believe I saw that on a bumper sticker the other day.”

  “Words to live by.” She peruses the menu once more then sets it down and gestures to my shirt. “Now, don’t get me wrong—your surfing outfit was great, but I like the casual yet classy look of your attire.”

  I tug at my polo shirt. It’s some shade of green. “Why, thank you. I wasn’t entirely sure if polo shirts were still acceptable for a sort-of-kind-of business dinner, so I’m glad to have the fashion hound seal of approval.”

  She mimes stamping the shirt. “It definitely works. The jersey cotton gives it just the right casual feel, and the celery color is perfect for your eyes.”

  That was quite a thorough assessment, but then, it shouldn't be a surprise. “I had no idea it was jersey. Or that celery is a color. What color is celery?”

  “The color of your shirt, of course. It’s a very pretty green.”

  I slide into a feminine tone. “Oh, thank you so much, so glad you like my pretty shirt.” I return to my regular voice. “And you look great.” It comes out a little awkward, like I shouldn't be complimenting her, and maybe I shouldn't be, given my detour into dirty thoughts of removing her shirt a few minutes ago.

  The pink button-down looks like it’s made of the softest material ever, thin and kind of sexy but also classy. It gives a little hint of skin and makes me want a bigger peek.

  She shoots me a smile. “Thank you. It’s the ideal outfit for fries, I believe. But then again, everything goes with fries. You could eat them in a boat, you could eat them in a box, you could eat them with a fox—” She covers her face with her hands. “I can’t believe what I just said.”

  Laughing at her unexpected Dr. Seuss segue, I point at her. “You’re reciting Green Eggs and Ham!”

  “I k
now.” She looks up, a little embarrassed. “Well, Chris. The cat’s out of the bag. I’m kind of a dork.”

  “Nah, that’s just a good book. But would you eat them in a house? Would you eat them with a mouse?”

  “I will eat them in a boat, I will eat them with a goat,” she fires back.

  I slam a fist on the table. “And I will eat them in the rain. And in the dark. And on a train.”

  A waiter pops by our table, fresh-faced and sporting a smile that stretches to Timbuktu as he sets water glasses on the table. “And what can I get you fine folks today?”

  “We’re going to go a little wild and order some French fries,” I begin.

  “Yeah, go nuts!” the cheery fellow replies. “What kind of sauce would you like with those?”

  I meet her gaze. “Tell the man.”

  With a Cheshire cat smile, McKenna straightens her shoulders, clears her throat, and announces in a prim, proper voice, “I’d like to try the orgasmic ketchup, please.”

  The guy rolls with it, giving her a thumbs-up. “Right on. That’s exactly what it is. Come to think of it, we should rename it Orgasmic Ketchup.”

  “Come to think of it indeed,” I add drily.

  He cackles, McKenna laughs, and I take a pretend bow.

  “And what other flavors of sauces would you like with your fries?”

  I gesture to the lovely brunette across from me. “McKenna, want to go full ladies’ choice?”

  Her eyes sparkle with delight. “Actually, I love surprises.” She turns to the happy dude. “Why don’t you surprise us? Just pick your three best, any three.”

  The waiter’s smile spreads, as if he’s thrilled to have been entrusted with such an important task. “It will be my pleasure to hand-select the sauces.”

  In addition to the fries, McKenna orders a Mediterranean salad, I opt for a chicken sandwich, and we return to the conversation.

  “Are you a closet Dr. Seuss fan?”

  “No, I’m loud and proud on that front. But it was at the top of my mind because I read it to my friend Hayden’s daughter the other night. She’s twelve going on eighteen, so she’s totally over it, but she was amused her younger self liked it.” She taps her chin. “I believe she considered it an ironic reading of the book. And you?”