Evidently Fairy Jane was not above a little quid pro quo, and as disturbing as that was, I didn’t want to think about it right now. I didn’t particularly care to think about the fact that my little plan—the Nic James Life Plan—was being systematically dismantled, and I was standing helplessly by, struggling to decide whether I even wanted to piece it back together. My world had gone topsy-turvy.
My favorite cupcake spot was nearby, tucked into a shiny silver Airstream trailer, and right now, I needed a fix—bad. Winking in the sunlight with a giant rotating cupcake on its roof, Hey Cupcake! was a city treasure. I stepped up to the window under the frosting-pink awning, closed my eyes, and inhaled the sweet scent of cake and frosting. Today I needed the Double Dose Whipper Snapper, with its injection of whipped cream, and of course, the requisite carton of milk.
Carrying my order to an umbrella-covered table just beyond the metallic glare of the trailer, I let myself be hypnotized by the sprinkle-topped jumbo replica on the roof, and for five solid minutes just let it be about the cupcake. At five minutes, two seconds, I simultaneously got a “Where are you?” text and remembered the meeting for which I was now horribly late.
Shit! I’d never missed a meeting—never even been late—and now all I could think was that I didn’t want to leave my happy cupcake place. I wanted to hide out inside the trailer and forget everything that had happened in the last seventy-two hours. I. Was. Not. Myself.
Time to regroup. First I needed to ground myself, because right now I was either floating or free-falling, it was difficult to tell. The answers I wanted—some of them at least—were in the journal, and it seemed like Cat Nelson’s entries might be the perfect place to find them. Depending on what I found, I might even want to roadtrip down to New Braunfels to quiz Mr. Nelson in person on what he knew about his sister’s experience with an honest-to-God Fairy Jane.
Pulling the journal out of my bag as covertly as possible, I tucked it under the table in front of me and glanced around to see if I had an audience. I didn’t—evidently no one went for cupcakes at one-thirty P.M. on a weekday. I turned the key and felt the weight of a hundred secrets on my lap—a couple of hefty pounds.
Riding high on a sugar rush, I flipped to the end, searching for Cat’s first entry. It appeared she was already a little sweet on Tyler Honeycutt.
Everywhere I turn, he’s holding a door or tipping his hat. Seeing his clean-shaven face smiling down at me underneath the brim of his Stetson, a shiver of excitement runs through me. He’s wearing me down, little by little—it makes me nervous to think about it.
The second entry covered the barbeque and dance held at the VFW hall and a corsage of yellow roses.
I don’t even pretend to know how you seem to “know” certain things—about me, about him—but I figure this is my life, and I need to make my own decisions. And I think Tyler is the man for me.
The next couple of entries came off as vaguely snide—much like my own entries—as if Cat was getting advice she wasn’t prepared to take. I could relate. It seemed as if Fairy Jane was fighting a losing battle. But something must have shifted the balance....
Then I found it.
Tyler’s older brother Jameson lost his leg today working on a combine. I’m doing my best to be useful in this time of tragedy and praying for the family, but I can’t help but consider how this all affects Tyler and me. I don’t imagine that Jameson can manage to run the ranch now, which means the job will fall to Tyler. We had big plans—plans to see the world, to have adventures, and now he’ll be tied to the ranch, and me with him if I agree to marry him. I’ve already said yes, and while, in most cases, I reserve the right to change my mind, I can’t decide what to do. I don’t want to jilt him, but I don’t want to be trapped here either. What can I do? What would you do?
A quick scan produced the relevant words: “don’t marry him.” And much as I felt for Tyler—not to mention Jameson—I had to side with Fairy Jane on this one. And judging by my brief conversation with Mr. Nelson, Cat had ultimately decided to do the same.
So she’d taken Fairy Jane’s advice and seemingly gone on to live a lovely life. Seemingly. I gulped down the rest of my milk, scoped out my surroundings—I still had my picnic table to myself—and kept reading.
I did it—I broke it off with Tyler. It was harder than I thought it would be. I guess I thought he’d understand since he’d had the same dreams I had, but he didn’t, not at all. He went on and on about family obligations and responsibility, and I understood that, I really did, but Fredericksburg was never going to be big enough for me. I’d been waiting for as long as I could remember to get out, and I just couldn’t stay. I kissed him good-bye and tasted my own salty tears. He didn’t shed a single one for me, and when I left, there was only anger and hurt in his eyes. I know I made the right decision, and I’m relieved to have, if not an actual person, then at least a voice on my side, so thank you... .
After that, Cat’s entries ran to her involvement with the USO, her training in the Army Nurse Corps and deployment to Normandy, France, and other adventures after the war. Her entries were a little spottier as time passed, and they never made mention of another man, which, of course, made me wonder: Had Tyler Honeycutt been her one true love? Had she traded her happily-ever-after for a chance to see the world? Had she had any regrets, held a grudge against Fairy Jane? Had she ever come back to Texas?
I snapped the journal shut and twisted out the key, conscious of a subtle, sucking sound as the secrets retreated back inside the journal.
Cat Nelson had clearly had a rewarding life, but what about love? I certainly didn’t want to stick to the Nic James Life Plan if it meant I’d spend the rest of my life as a Do-It-Yourself-er. As far as I was concerned, the matter was inconclusive.
And I supposed, in my brave new world, the next step was obvious: Tomorrow’s lunch hour would be spent on a roadtrip to New Braunfels. I’d track down Mr. Nelson and hope to get a few answers.
Resigned, I headed back to work, watching the giant rotating cupcake in my rearview mirror until it disappeared, wondering if it was possible that this was all a really detailed, highly involved dream sequence. Thank God there’d been cupcakes.
By the time I got back to work I was dreading the rest of the afternoon—not to mention a run-in with my boss. Within seconds of dropping into my chair, my phone trilled loudly into the subdued hush of murmured conversation and clicking keyboards, popping my private little bubble.
“Nicola James,” I answered, sounding deflated.
“Yeah, this is Steve in the lobby. Some flowers have been delivered for you.”
I stared at the phone and frowned. “Some flowers?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All riiight. I’m coming down.” This was definitely a mistake—I was not the type of girl who got roses on a random weekday. But today I was happy for any reason to escape.
I took the stairs down to the lobby and beelined for the security desk. A single bouquet of flowers sat on the black granite counter, and I had to admit, I wanted them. No vase, just a clutch of cranberry red gerbera daisies wrapped up in florist’s tape and tied with a skinny sapphire ribbon. The fact that there’d clearly been a mistake was going to make marching back upstairs into a gray-walled windowless cubicle more than a little depressing. Particularly today.
Stepping up to the desk, I flashed my badge to the well-identified Steve, and he announced, quite unnecessarily, “Here they are.”
Yearning just slightly for a miracle, the general gist of which was that a certain smitten stranger had managed, despite my evasive maneuvers, to track me down, my heart thumped steadily in my chest. Wanting a little privacy, I shifted to the corner of the desk and opened the card that, oddly enough, had my name on it.
I’m not above a good old-fashioned bribe.
Please come Thursday,
Sean.
I reread the words, disbelieving, and then lifted my hand to my lips, only slightly worried that I might let out an embarrassing screech right there in the lobby.
“Pretty please?”
I jerked at the voice just outside my peripheral vision and whipped my head around in shock. An accent wasn’t so uncommon around here, but the voice was unmistakable.
“Sean?” My voice sounded strangled; breath escaped me. Scruffy around the edges in jeans, a SXSW T-shirt, and a three o’ clock shadow, Sean was larger than life. He’d found me. Here at Micro. Worlds were definitely colliding. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t think. This was big—pivotal even—and with the latest excerpt still fresh in my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder if this pretty little bouquet was doing double duty.
Sean stepped closer, his presence working like interference on all logical thought processes, and reached for my hand. As his thumb grazed my knuckles, I melted a little. I tried for a deep, steadying breath, but it came out shakier than I’d hoped.
“What are you doing here?”
“A harmless bit of self-promotion to jog your memory.”
Very deliberately, he leaned in, his whole body shifting toward mine. For a fleeting, obscenely thrilling moment, I imagined that he was going to kiss me right there in the Micro lobby. I closed my eyes, breathed in his citrusy scent, and indulged in this ephemeral moment.
When my eyes fluttered back open, I realized he’d only been reaching for the bouquet, sitting on the counter behind me. Disoriented and a little disappointed to have misread his intentions, I tried to rally, taking the flowers he was nudging into my hands. Grinning at the daisies’ happy little faces, I tipped them up to my nose.
“They’re beautiful—thank you!—but they’re totally unnecessary. You were very memorable.”
“They suit you. Now you just need a meadow behind you.” His voice was low, half-serious, half-teasing, and I couldn’t help but smile. I glanced down at myself in jeans and a ruffle-edged white blouse.
“No argument here.” I couldn’t figure how it was possible, but he was waaay more charming and fly-away-to-Scotland sexy than I remembered. “But I’m guessing it’s not waiting in the car?”
My smile quirked up, a surefire hint that I was kidding about the meadow. A little too late, I remembered my own advice: Geeky girls did not flirt with über-sexy men and come away unscathed. What if he assumed I was interested? Idiot! I was interested. But what if he thought I was seriously interested? Well, I was seriously interested—I just wasn’t interested in anything serious. And therein lay the rub.
I dipped my head down abruptly and feathered my fingers over the delicate fringe of petals.
“No room on the back of the bike.”
“You biked here?” My head whipped back up at this stunning news.
His laugh rolled out like faraway thunder as he gave my fingers a friendly squeeze.
“Nothing quite so crazy. The bike is a motorcycle.”
Why was I not surprised? “In that case,” I assured him, “you’re off the hook—I’ll be responsible for my own meadow.” Was it just me, or did that sound kinky?
“I was hoping the flowers would persuade you to come out to dinner with me tonight. I brought along a spare helmet.”
I was busy being amused by his negotiation tactics when it hit me—he was expecting me to ride on the back of his motorcycle.
“Uh-uh.” I shook my head in quick little spastic jerks. “I don’t do motorcycles. I like a good steel door, a snug seat belt, and a Freon-powered air conditioner—or on a day like today, a trusty heater.”
“You’re really quite adorable,” he mused, sliding his finger along the edge of my jaw. And I had to admit, at this moment, that finger was welcome almost anywhere. “Right, then. Rain check on the bike,” he said, breaking contact. Even in my muddled state I could recognize the tone of his voice—he was totally confident he’d be able to persuade me onto that bike. Poor guy, he had no idea who he was dealing with.
But the motorcycle was the least of my problems. He was looking for a date—for tonight! I’d thought we’d kind of mutually agreed at the wedding that this little mini-crush going on between us was a one-night deal. (I may have been deluding myself, but I wasn’t counting my appearance at his band’s Thursday night exhibition as anything more than a casual night out.) Yet here he was, looking for night number two.
And he looked sooo good.
And he’d brought me flowers.
And Fairy Jane was essentially blackmailing me into giving him a chance. She fought dirty, but with very good taste—I considered that a truly redeeming quality.
I needed a second to think this through. I hadn’t exactly had time since discovering the latest excerpt, with its blatant attempt at blackmail, not to mention the calendar, with its eerily timely quotes, to formulate a plan. The fact that I’d decided to see Sean’s band on Thursday and subsequently raced out to buy their CD and play it just shy of obsession didn’t necessarily justify any sort of “date” between us. Even running the risk of blackmail, I didn’t think a date would be a good idea.
“So, dinner?” Sean asked, tracing dizzying circles on the inside of my palm. Before I could formulate a response, he moved in closer, close enough to have me backing up against the security counter, whispering, “I’ll pretend to be an investment banker.”
My eyes widened in a mix of shock and confusion, and I stumbled over my words. “Wh-why would you do that?”
“To put you at ease. You don’t strike me as the type to date musicians.”
I tipped my head down and felt the flush creep up my neck. “I’m not actually dating anyone at all.”
“Brilliant! Can I assume that you’re free, then, it being a Monday night and all?”
The surprise and shock of it all, combined with the slow seduction of my palm, had me sliding into submission despite the clamor of protestations sounding in my brain.
“Sure,” I answered with what probably seemed like an overly dramatic exhalation of breath. “How about we meet at seven?”
We agreed on a place and exchanged cell phone numbers, and as I programmed his into my phone, I couldn’t help but imagine how bittersweet it was going to be when it was time to delete it.
“I’ll meet you there,” I said. “Without helmet hair.”
And then he flashed me that charming, irresistible smile and began, once again, to lean in. Images fluttered like butterflies in my brain, and for at least two excruciating seconds, I was dizzy with uncertainty. I’d imagined so many different ways to be kissed by this man—all of them quite excellent—and I was darn ready to get on with things.
At long last, his lips pressed softly against my temple, sending the blood rushing to that spot, causing a rhythmic pounding that closely resembled a sinus headache. Feeling the tingle on my skin, I realized that further time spent with Sean was bound to turn my face into a series of landmarks, all branded with his name. When he let go of my hand, I tightened my grip on my perky little bouquet and watched as he disappeared through the lobby’s revolving door. And then I climbed the steps back to my cube.
I was beginning to wonder if my fancy little spicy-scented journal worked like the famed wardrobe that secreted a passage to Narnia, as a portal that had sent me spiraling into some sort of parallel universe. The very idea was wildly unbelievable, but lately I felt like a stand-in in someone else’s life.
Dropping the daisies into a mug of tepid drinking water, I eyed their innocent little faces, forcing myself to remember that they were not the guilty party here. On edge, I shifted my gaze to stare at the phone, biting my lower lip. I suddenly had this intense need to talk to someone who understood about worlds colliding. I immediately thought of Beck.
She wasn’t working today—she had a full class schedule on Mondays—but I’d catch her between bells. I dialed her cell, and it went straight to voice mail, and I heard myself leaving an urgent, angsty message with a final plea to please try to call me before seven.
Conscious of the need to get some work done today, I swung into my lab coat, selected the pertinent binder from a tidily organized row, and carefully collected the tray of parts I needed to get tested that afternoon.
I ran into Brett on my way out—literally ran into him. He was lounging in the doorway of my cube, his hands deep in his pockets. He had an uncertain little-boy look on his face as he eyed the daisies peeping their mischievous little faces up over the edge of my travel mug.
“Flowers, huh?” His eyes swiveled back to me, and his smile seemed a little off.
I glanced over my shoulder and then back at him. “Um, yeah. A friend sent them.”
“Nice. Well, I just came by ...” He breathed out, his shoulders drooping slightly with the effort, and started over with, “The guy in the cubicle across from me told me you’d been by a few times.”
Hell. Who knew Brett had spies?
“Yeah.” Think fast, think fast. How can I possibly justify swinging by at all hours of the workday?
“Thought I’d better come pin you down after Saturday night,” he continued before I could muster anything useful.
“Saturday night?” I was seriously confused.
“At the wedding? I thought you were going to come upstairs and hang out.”
Oh crap. Saturday night had been an out-of-body experience. But that probably wasn’t the best response here. “Yeah,” I answered, nodding, “I thought so too.” I shook my head a little, trying to convey my inadvertent mishandling of the situation. “I ended up leaving early,” I confessed, hoping this little fraction of the truth would satisfy him, hoping he’d never seen me with Sean.
“I figured. I didn’t see you again after the one dance.”
Shit! He saw me!
Frantically fidgeting with my pocketful of engineering tools, I forced myself not to react, to try to stay mysterious.
“Right. I left right after that. I should never have worn those shoes.” I was cringing inside, waiting for him to call me on this ridiculous skirting of the truth.
I smiled up at him and saw his gaze flick over the daisies again. As if he was making the connection I desperately didn’t want him to make. Yes, I’m having dinner with that stranger tonight and planning to see him again Thursday night. But it’s just a fling, brought on by a little spot of blackmail!
“I gotta admit I was disappointed.”
This had me whipping my head up and stilling the hand in my pocket.
He was watching my reaction with interest and surprised me with the admission, “I was kinda hoping to talk to you beyond the realm of cubicles and the whole Whac-A-Mole dynamic.”
Recognizing the appeal of a padded mallet in my current work environment, I nevertheless tried to stay focused on the words coming from Brett’s mouth.
“You free for lunch any day this week?”
“Yep. Pretty much any day. Take your pick,” I offered, shooting him a much-relieved smile. Sean was no longer the elephant in the cubicle. Or if he was, Brett was content to ignore him.
“How about tomorrow?”
“That works.” I’d have to push back my trip to New Braunfels a few hours. Maybe I could swing an early-evening visit, steering clear of the Jeopardy! time slot.
“Okay, well, see you then—unless I catch you skulking around my cube sometime before that.” He was clearly teasing, but it was hitting a little close to the mark. I plastered on a grin.
His eyes tipped down, taking in my white engineer’s smock, schoolgirl binder, and clunky heel straps, and a slow smile slid across his face.
“I know—it’s all very sexy,” I said, rolling my eyes.
“And here I thought it was my own personal fetish,” he admitted with a parting wink before shrugging off the doorjamb to head off down the hall.
Oh my God, he was serious! I stared down at myself, a shapeless figure in white with a pocket protector. Who knew?
Feeling the warmth of a full-on flush creeping up my neck and spreading into my cheeks, I hurried into the maze with my head down, making a beeline for the test floor. Looked like I’d be spending the remainder of the afternoon worrying alternately over my bumbling flirtations with both Sean and Brett. Not to mention trouble.
By six I’d shucked the smock and sped home to change. My thinking was to dress sensible and act the part. But gazing at myself in a tailored skirt and sweater set and remembering Sean’s tousled hair and effortless style, I figured it’d be nice to look like his date instead of his personal assistant. Even though this was not a date-date.
Fully aware that I was going to be late—when did this start?—I yanked off the sensible and scrambled to replace it with something sexy. I did a quick touch-up on my makeup and tamed a few flyaways with a squirt of hair spray. Feeling only marginally overdressed for Tex-Mex, I grabbed my purse and dashed for the door. I absolutely refused to check the calendar and psych myself out any further.
I made the drive in record time, wobbled across the potholed parking lot, and scanned for motorcycles. I didn’t see one—maybe he wasn’t here yet. I spared a moment to gather my nerve and remind myself that there was no need for me to be suffering all these first-date symptoms when this wasn’t a date. The last second before I pulled open the door was spent in calling myself a delusional idiot.
All was momentarily forgotten as I stepped into sensory overload. Mariachi music mingled with the sizzle of fajitas, and punched tin lanterns glinted off neon Mexican beer signs to create a quaint but jaunty ambiance. I approached the hostess with her scary-enthusiastic smile. She greeted me brightly. “Table for one this evening?”
“I’m actually meeting someone,” I informed her, trailing off, glancing around.
“There’s a man waiting in the bar,” she said, shifting her eyes that way, willing mine to follow, and letting hers linger. We shared a smile before I thanked her and headed off in Sean’s direction. I couldn’t help but wonder where his motorcycle was hiding.
He was staring up at a muted television screen, mesmerized by a frenzy of soccer players. Shaking his head, presumably in exasperation, he suddenly, almost guiltily, shifted his eyes in my direction. And I, just as guiltily, tried to pull mine up and away from his ass, hoping he hadn’t noticed. We shared a smile, and he nodded his thanks to the bartender, lifted a booted foot off the brass bar rail, and headed toward me.
He’d switched his jeans for chinos and covered that afternoon’s T-shirt with a charcoal gray crewneck sweater that looked suspiciously like cashmere. I had an almost overpowering urge to smooth my palms over his chest and snuggle into him. Not the best of sensible, restrained beginnings.
His lips quirked with some secret knowledge and he pointedly checked his watch. I tried not to squirm. “You’re late,” he informed me. “I would never have imagined that possible, Ms. James. But good for you.”
I had absolutely no response to this—an apology seemed out of place, and he didn’t seem to be expecting one. Palming my hand in his and raising an eyebrow that dared me to remove it, Sean led the way back toward the hostess station. We were seated immediately in a red vinyl corner booth.
As the hostess stood waiting with our menus, I lowered myself onto the right edge of the booth, swung my legs under the table, and tentatively started scooting. First test of the evening: Where should I stop in my scoot-around? Before I could decide, Sean dropped down onto the seat opposite and began his own scoot, rapidly closing the space between us.
I forced myself to focus on the hostess as she ran down the day’s specials, but a slight dip in the seat cushion had me glancing to my right, only to discover that Sean had, in one fell scoot, repositioned himself almost flush up against me. Our knees bumped, followed closely by our thighs. It was only when they’d finally settled against each other that the little zips and snaps of electricity settled down to a low-level buzz. Glancing up at Sean, I caught the look in his eye and once again felt as if he was daring me to shift away. I smiled warmly, keeping all sharp edges of my personality in check, and glanced again at the hostess, who finished with, “Your server will be right with you.”
This wasn’t going to work. My body went haywire whenever he so much as brushed against me, and here he was, pressing, lingering, driving me crazy. I casually shifted over a couple of inches, pretending to get comfortable.
Sean looked me in the eye, quirked his lips, and in a low voice murmured, “I’ll follow you all the way around.”
My smile fell away a little, chipped off by the shock of it all, and I didn’t move again.
At that moment, it occurred to me that if I didn’t drag my nerve out of hiding, he was going to play everything to his advantage and probably end up scoring (in one way or another). At this rate it was only a matter of time before my willpower tanked and my plan to stay detached and project incompatibility crashed and burned.
The busboy appeared, bearing tumblers of ice water, little bowls of chunky red salsa, and a heaping basket of golden tortilla chips. Depositing these, he dodged away without a word.
Sean leaned into me as I reached for a chip.
“Did you notice? I’m dressed as ‘Investment Banker on Casual Date.’ ”
“Very nice.” I shot him an amused smile. “But not necessary.”
“If it helps you relax, then I’m all in. And next time, you can return the favor by dressing like a rock star. Wild hair, a little leather, lots of skin ...”
This was a bit of a shocker. “Is that how your band dresses?”
“No, but if we had a female band member, we’d absolutely make her dress like that.” His grin was quick and sure, and I was getting a little addicted to it. I decided not to mention that there wouldn’t be a next time.
He was quiet for a bit, staring at me. Initially I filled the silence crunching chips, but eventually self-consciousness won the day, spurring me to stop eating and ask, “What are you doing?”
“Picturing you in leather.”
My stomach lurched. It appeared the evening would have me floundering in ways I’d never predicted.
Reaching for another chip, I tried to get the conversation back onto manageable ground. “What’d you do today, other than ambush a geek at work?”
He eyed me for a moment before answering, as if gauging whether it was a serious question or merely polite conversation. So I turned to look him square in the eyes, seemingly riveted with curiosity.
“Fiddled about in Whole Foods,” he said, in that patient way of his, with humor creeping in at the edges. “Snitching samples until I was no longer hungry for lunch. Ended up with a bloody puncture wound, courtesy of a prickly little star fruit. The beast.”
I nodded in sympathy. “Produce can get pretty rowdy. Are you talking seriously bloody or just painful enough for cursing?”
“Both,” he admitted. “I worked some too,” he informed me as I reached for another chip. At the rate I was going, I’d be wedged into this booth indefinitely. In an effort to slow the pace, I broke the chip into crispy little shards and ate them slowly one at a time.
“What are you working on now?”
“We’re prepping for the show now, mostly practicing our current stuff. But my mum’s started hinting around for some new songs, so I’m searching for inspiration in hopes of some brilliant new music and lyrics.”
“Is she your biggest fan?” He could no doubt hear the amusement in my voice, but he couldn’t know that I thought the reality was just adorable.
“Are you kidding? She’s a mother. She probably would have preferred male model to pub singer-made-good.”
I bit my lip and tried not to snigger. The real difficulty, however, came in not getting distracted by imagined skin shots. “But you’ve won her over?”
“Not exactly. I bought her an iPod and downloaded all the band’s songs and nothing else. She takes it walking with her.”
“So you’re taking advantage of the fact that she’s not tech savvy?”
“Don’t tell me you’re taking her side?”
He was obviously teasing, but I couldn’t help but tense in reaction. In my defense, I was confident I’d be just as likely to resist the advances of a calendar pin-up as an up-and-coming rock star. Seriously! Is something wrong with me? Taking a deep breath, I tried to steer clear of a doozy of a conversational pothole, hiding behind a little friendly banter.
“Sorry. All I had to hear was ‘male model.’ ”
Suddenly, like flashbulbs going off in my head, images of a scantily clad Sean were making me dizzy.
After an excruciating silence, he finally spoke up. “Sorry—are you flirting with me? I’d got the feeling I was strictly off-limits.”
Now he was definitely mocking me, but the wicked flash of his grin easily defused the awkwardness, and I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. And I had the urge to ask, “Does your nerve ever get you into trouble?”
“I prefer the term ‘Machiavellian charm,’ ” he informed me with a wink.
So the end justified the means. I knew a fairy godmother with the very same perspective. Nerves pounced on my empty stomach as my smile faltered slightly. If I were braver, I’d ask for the evening’s agenda right now, because I was certain there was one. I might have been winging it, but Sean, I could tell, had a plan. A man with a plan ... be still my heart. Too bad it didn’t mesh with mine.
“Is that what’s got you so nervy, then—the what-ifs?” he asked.
“You could say that.” Or you could say I was suffering a tragic crush on the completely wrong man and no one—best friend, mentee, fairy godmother, nary a lesbian neighbor—seemed willing to take my side. I unhooked the wedge of lime from my glass and squeezed it into my water, suddenly desperate for a distraction.
The waiter came to take our orders and left us to our deceptively casual silence. I couldn’t speak for Sean, but I for one was in a bit of a tizzy. I tried to relax and focus on the sombrero-topped mariachi trio as they wound their way through the tables, alternating between rousing instrumentals and sigh-invoking serenades. I barely even noticed my fingers fidgeting with a slit in the vinyl seat cover until I realized I needed to relocate my purse to cover the new tangerine-sized hole beside my hip.
“So what if ... you enjoy yourself tonight?” Sean prompted, sliding his finger slowly along the cold, wet condensation coating his water glass.
“No biggie,” I countered blithely. “Mexican food is a pretty sure thing for me.” I swirled my straw and watched the ice spin in circles.
“Fair enough. What if ... the Mexican food isn’t the best part of the evening?”
I stopped swirling, just for a second, before starting up again. He had me there—it had taken him two measly questions to size me up and get me squeamish.
“Then that means you’re a good date.” That seemed a relatively safe response. I smiled, not quite meeting his eyes.
“What if I turn out to be the best date you’ve ever had?” He smiled back, his gaze clinging to mine. My tortilla chip turned to dust in my mouth, and I reached for my water glass, relieved to have a distraction, no matter how fleeting.
I took a long drink, probably too long, but I was racking my brain for the safest response.
“Then you’ll get a full-page write-up in my journal,” I promised, figuring a version of the truth was probably best.
“Not precisely what I was hoping for,” he admitted, his head tipped to the side.
“And,” I hurried on before he could elaborate, “you will have raised the bar for all my future dates.” I was teasing now but urgently hoping he’d drop this line of questioning—I wasn’t about to agree to anything beyond this one date.
He smiled then, a cagey smile that had my pulse zipping with nerves.
“I’m a sucker for a good cause,” he said, twirling his tortilla chip through the salsa.
Sean and I had been steadily working our way through the chips and salsa during the “what-if?” repartee, and now it barely registered that his chip had been around the bowl before. And then it was like fireworks in my head. I had little doubt that tonight would remain uncontested as Best Date Ever, but it eased my mind just a little to discover that, as amazing—not to mention cocky—as he was, the man wasn’t perfect. I’d found a flaw: Sean was a double-dipper.
While I was against this on principle, it didn’t particularly bother me: If I was going to get Sean’s germs, I was likely getting them right now sharing a communal basket of chips, rubbing elbows (and thighs), and breathing the same spicily scented air. And if he should happen to kiss me tonight (please, God!), I’d be well and truly breached. Still, I wasn’t about to let this pass without comment.
“You’re a double-dipper!” I blurted.
Sean took the accusation in stride. “I hate to disappoint you, but no. Just good with my hands, luv.”
Temporarily thrown by the casual endearment, I quickly recovered, turning to argue. But he was faster. Slipping his hand around to cup the back of my neck and tipping his head sideways to speak directly into my ear, Sean made everything else fall away. His voice skittered over my skin and was the cause of widespread goose bumps.
“And I hope it’s not my germs you’re worried over, because I have plans for you. And clearly I have my work cut out for me.” He was dropping a kiss along the curved line of my neck as the waiter approached. As he presented our food on oversized stoneware, warning us of “hot plates,” Sean let his hand slide down, skimming over my shoulder, arm, and finally my thigh as he pulled away.
Every nerve ending was on full alert, so when I stuffed that first oven-hot bite of enchilada into my mouth, my tongue got scalded. I was frantically gulping down ice water when the mariachis materialized at our booth garbed in the traditional black and silver charro suits.
Sean set down his fork and asked, “Are you familiar with the Elvis ballad ‘It’s Now or Never’?”
“The King?” The guitarist looked a tad affronted by the question. “But of course. We play for you?”
“Just the instrumentals, if you don’t mind.” Apparently Sean was not too impressed with the vocal stylings of these men. And here I’d thought they were pretty good.
“Not at all, señor.” The request became a pleasure as Sean slid a few bills into the guitarist’s palm. Pocketing the tip, the trio began their tableside rendition of Elvis’s smoothly persuasive ballad.
“Let’s kick things up a notch, shall we?” His eyebrow winged up in challenge as mine dipped down in confusion.
And then, as the thrill of the trumpet subsided, the voice beside me rose to take its place.