“As requested, a kilt-wearing escort for a day of hooky.”
Sean was waiting for me outside Juan in a Million, balancing Austin’s fine line of fitting in while standing out. Likely the fact that he’d paired a black “Keep Austin Weird” tee with his knee-skimming plaid had something to do with it. Or it simply could have been that he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous even in a skirt.
After fibbing on the phone to my boss’s voice mail, I’d called Sean and laid out my first request. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t balked.
The kilt had been nonnegotiable, and the fact that I’d planned that aspect of the day didn’t make the reality of seeing Sean in a kilt any less of an adventure. Besides, I had no idea what he might be wearing underneath. And that had adventure written all over it.
With that single exception, I’d taken the advice. Weird, yes. But today, by its very nature, was deviant from the norm—a Wednesday without work, a day of surprises with a sexy Scotsman ... Why not do the opposite? It had worked for Costanza. I do admit to balking slightly when faced with the latest quote-of-the-moment: “ ‘It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides.’ Persuasion,” but I tried to let it roll off me. So while I was about to eat breakfast tacos with a man in a kilt, beyond that, I had no plans.
A nervous shiver crawled up my spine, and I suddenly felt very Rain Man. No plans ... not good ... not good ... not good at all. But then Sean leaned in, laid his warm hand against my shoulder, and kissed me on the top edge of my cheekbone, and I felt instantly calm. Well, calm-er.
“I’m glad to see you’ve gotten into the spirit of the day, but fair is fair. You chose my clothes, so I’ve chosen yours.”
My eyes flashed wide, swung up to meet his, then dropped to zero in on the package he was holding out to me, wrapped in purple paper and tied with black ribbon. I reached for it slowly, simultaneously desperate and afraid to open it. I had, after all, agreed to all of this.
As Austin’s breakfast crowd streamed into the restaurant around us, anxious for their first cup of coffee and the aroma of homemade flour tortillas, I tore into the paper, finding more purple beneath, in the form of a T-shirt. Holding the edges, I let it drop down before me, a spike of shock zooming straight to my stomach. I glanced at Sean to see a smug smile lingering on his lips.
He’d bought me the shirt I hadn’t had the nerve to buy myself: “Keep Austin Weird.” I’d never mentioned it to him, and yet, after nearly a week-long trial by fire, on the day I imagined I might deserve it most, he had it wrapped and ready. At this moment, I could almost believe that Sean knew a bit of magic himself. Biting my lip, I glanced down at my pale pink T-shirt and charcoal gray hoodie and vowed to change at the first possible opportunity.
As I stepped closer to wrap Sean in an impulsive hug, he shifted slightly—I suspect deliberately—setting our lips on a collision course. I kicked the unexpected PDA up a notch, clinging to him with a strange urgency for the day ahead.
“Like T-shirts, do you? Good to know,” he said, grabbing my hand, tossing the paper, and pulling me into the restaurant.
Seconds after we ordered I was dragging off my hoodie, draping it over the back of my chair, and heading for the bathroom to change. By the time I got back our breakfast was already on the table and Sean’s coffee cup was being refilled. Evidently the time I’d spent admiring myself in my Weird shirt had flown by, and now I was eager to dig in to my huevos rancheros. The shirt, it seemed, had taken the edge off my squeamishness.
“Let’s have a look at your list for the day,” Sean suggested, dousing his taco with hot sauce.
I sat up a little straighter before revealing, “I didn’t make a list.”
“Sorry?” Sean looked up from his plate, turning his head slightly, bringing his ear around.
“I decided to go a little crazy today. The kilt is the whole plan.”
A great big watermelon smile spread across Sean’s face. “It is, is it? Were you hoping the lack of pants might somehow thwart the success of my plan for the day? Or is it just that little thing you have for me rearing its lusty head?”
Despite the blush creeping up my neck, I managed to answer coherently. “Will the lack of pants trip you up?” Curious minds wanted to know.
“Does it matter?”
“It depends on what you have planned.” And whether or not I’m chicken to go through with it.
“Shall I tell you?” The man was a flirting fiend.
“Please do.” My heart had started to beat a little faster in nervous anticipation.
Sean wiped his mouth with a napkin and settled his hand loosely around his coffee cup. “I thought we could stop off at Central Market, put together a picnic lunch, then drive up to Mount Bonnell. When we’ve squeezed all the romance out of that, I imagined us strolling through Zilker Park, possibly dipping our toes into Barton Springs, and then renting a canoe to row out on the lake to watch the evening exodus of bats. All very tame. But there is, naturally, another list.”
My blood pressure suddenly spiked, and I forced myself to ask, “Why is there another list?”
“Well, I see no reason to trek all over the city separately. Gas is ludicrously expensive, and the two-car-length separation puts me at a distinct disadvantage.” He paused, his lips curving into a rueful twist, but I didn’t rise to the bait, instead waiting for the big bang. “Sooo, I had this brilliant idea: You could clap on the spare helmet, and we could ride together. On the bike.”
I opened my mouth to object, trying to get the words out around the pulse pounding in my throat, but Sean was quicker. And clearly not hampered by frenzied nervousness.
“You can, of course, veto the motorcycle, but you only have the one veto, luv. And I am determined to inject a little daring into your day.”
I tapped the tines of my fork against the edge of my plate in a bit of a temper. “You’re stooping to blackmail ... really? What about my half of the day?” I demanded. I might not have had a plan, but if nothing else occurred to me, I could always stall.
“Don’t think of it as blackmail—more as a call to adventure. And as the only one with a plan, I thought we’d run through that first and leave the evening—post-bats—to you.”
Post-bats. Twilight and after. I was in charge of the after-dark activities. Damn Fairy Jane! When was it ever a good idea not to have a plan! So it was going to be left to me to either plan a seduction or circumvent one. Not only that, but I quickly needed to decide whether or not I wanted to risk vetoing the motorcycle and having Sean come up with the threatened alternative.
Sean waited patiently as I glared. He’d done this on purpose. Crowding my mind with two separate and distinctly worrying topics, he’d hijacked my thought processes and sent me into a tizzy of uncertainty. As deviousness went, it was very clever—I was impressed, and I wasn’t.
I lapsed into a silent pro / con debate as I worked through the rest of my breakfast. Sean, wisely, did not attempt to sway my decision.
Con: It’s a motorcycle! No seat belts, no doors, just open air and pavement.
Con: This is Texas Hill Country—everywhere you look are roller coaster roads!
Pro: It’s an excuse to wrap my arms around Sean and hang on tight.
I flicked my gaze up to make sure he wasn’t watching me, watching a new wave of flush ride up my neck.
Pro: Only one of us is wearing a skirt, and skirts tend to whip about in the wind... .
Whew! I could feel the blush crest at my cheeks and then flood onto my forehead, but I had the salsa as an alibi. I reached for my water glass and took a long, cool sip. My eyes shifted to look at Sean, and the white words on his shirt seemed to be shouting at me. It might not be weird to trek around Austin on the back of a motorcycle, but it was weird to do it with a man in a kilt, it was weird for me, and it was definitely weird to have to assemble a pro/con list about it. Seeing as I’d dedicated the day to the business of getting weird, how could I say no?
“Okay, fine. We can drop my car back by my house.”
“Brilliant! You’ll love the bike.”
Judging by the worrying view in my rearview mirror on the drive back home, I rather doubted it. To take my mind off my upcoming “adventure,” I decided to call Beck for a little pep talk. Seeing as I was shortly going to be pressed up against Sean, holding on for dear life on the back of a motorcycle, it was looking like there might not be another opportunity.
“Mmmph. ’lo?” Obviously she wasn’t awake yet.
“Beck? Wake up for a sec! It’s Juicy James, and I need to talk!”
“What? I’m up. What’s juicy? I really hope you’re not calling from your cubicle, because you probably don’t want a nickname like ‘Juicy James’ going around.”
“I’m not at work. I called in sick, and I’m spending the day with Sean.”
“Wha—”
“Long story. I’ll hit the highlights. We split the day fifty-fifty, each of us in charge of planning our half. No problem, right? Well, I stupidly took Fairy Jane’s advice and didn’t plan—except to make him wear his kilt. So now I’m in charge of tonight.” I gulped in a huge breath of air, hearing the whole thing lingering, ridiculous, in the air between us and wondered anew, How did he ever get me to agree to this?
Thankfully, Beck broke the silence before I started hyperventilating.
“Hold up. I’m only half-awake, and this isn’t making a whole lot of sense. He’s wearing a kilt? What’s on his list?”
I tried to settle my breathing while relaxing my foot on the accelerator to cruise through the timed lights on Cesar Chavez. “A motorcycle ride up to Mount Bonnell,” I nearly shouted into the phone. “And that isn’t even my biggest problem.”
“What’s your biggest problem?” Beck soothed.
“My biggest problem is that I’m in charge of tonight! ” Big, deep breath. “Sorry.”
“I’m not getting it. This is Austin. There’s plenty of stuff to do. What’s the problem?”
This was a tad awkward. “Well, we eventually have to come back to my house ... and he is wearing a kilt.” Surely that should say it all.
“Ooooh ... I getcha. Let’s see ... What if you ordered in and cuddled up on the couch with a movie? That’s bound to lead to something.” Something in her voice made me think it might have already led to a little something with Gabe. But with only a minute left to talk, I didn’t have time to press her for details.
“Maybe. But it lacks even a whiff of creativity—no offense. I want to deliver my own dare, and I want him to squirm a little before he decides to take it.”
“Got it. Do you own a collapsible pole for a little performance piece?”
Cell-phone silence wasn’t quite the same as a steely-eyed stare or a V8-inspired conk in the head, but it seemed to get my point across.
“Sorry. Just a little hooky-day humor. Hmmm ... You’ve got all day, right? Let me think about it, and when I come up with something, I’ll text you. Is that good?”
Seeing as I was pulling into my driveway and couldn’t exactly sit locked in the car to wait out Beck’s brainstorming session, that was going to have to do. “That’d be great, thanks. Assuming I’m not completely shell-shocked after my day on a motorcycle, I’ll definitely be looking for advice. Think subtle,” I urged, picturing her pinkness, fully aware that I was charging her with a very likely impossible task—subtle was not exactly Beck’s forte.
“Gotcha. Good luck. Take full advantage of the situation, and call me when you can, prepared to dish! Bye!”
And then it was just me, alone, with Sean and the bike parked beside me on the driveway purring quietly. I stared at it through the car window, the swoops and curls of chrome and leather, with its jaunty leprechaun green accents. It almost seemed friendly. Almost. Much as I dreaded it, I felt compelled to get out of the car.
“Ready, then?” Sean asked, irritatingly chipper.
“No.” My attitude could best be described as petulant. I was already thinking of reneging on the whole deal to scurry back to the safety of my cubicle.
Sean laughed, which didn’t help, then quickly sobered.
“Right, then. Why don’t you try just sitting on it? We’ll slide your helmet on, and you can just sit until you’re ready to move on.”
Sitting in a helmet. That had a safe ring to it. “Fine,” I mumbled, cautiously edging forward.
Bracing his left foot on the driveway, Sean swung his right leg over and off the bike in a smooth, competent motion. He then unhooked the spare helmet from its spot on the seat and slowly slid it onto my head. I was officially a bobblehead. He dipped his head down to look at me and grinned. “Ready to climb on?”
I managed a nod that seemed to go on long after I’d stopped consciously moving my head and, gripping the handlebars, swung my leg up and over. After a couple of uneventful seconds I turned toward Sean, a shaky grin creasing my previously starched face.
“You’re a natural. Ready to start her up and take a little ride?”
The grin slid quickly away, right along with my tact. “No.”
“Just to the end of the driveway and back,” Sean pressed. Before I could reject this idea, he’d slid onto the bike behind me and brought his arms around to cover my hands on the handlebars. “Trust me, luv,” he urged.
Rather than comfort me, his words derailed my confidence. The truth was I couldn’t figure out who to trust: myself, Sean, Fairy Jane, or any of my life’s little cheerleaders. But that was a bigger issue. This was just about a motorcycle—everything else could wait. I concentrated on Sean’s arms, and the warm contact points where our bodies met, and the fact that I did trust Sean to get me safely down the driveway and back.
Relieved that he couldn’t see my face, I nodded once, bobbing the bobblehead.
Wordlessly, Sean revved the engine and walked the bike around to face the street. Then he lifted both feet from the pavement and puttered us down the gently sloping driveway all the way to the street. He turned us neatly, and with a little twist of his wrist, we rocketed forward a little faster, shooting up the driveway with a buzz and a hum to stop once again beside my safe and quiet little car. Sean shifted the engine back to neutral and climbed off, leaving me to settle into the idea of whipping around the city on a breezy Wednesday morning in March.
“You’re hooked, aren’t you?” Sean taunted, dragging a smile out of me.
Our mini test drive might not have fazed me, but I had no delusions that our driveway jaunt would be in any way comparable to zipping around Austin at ten times the speed. But butterflies or not, I needed to risk it. Because if there was any chance of making things work with Sean, I was going to have to learn to be open to compromise and the occasional outlandish adventure.
I turned to Sean to give him the thumbs-up and spotted Leslie sauntering across the lawn in some sort of tangerine caftan, a pale avocado mask smeared over her face. Super.
Before launching into the inevitable commentary, she gave Sean the once-over, flicked her eyebrows up as if to say, “Where were you when I decided to switch teams?” and settled her gaze on me.
“My, my, my,” she started, feathering a hand to her ample bosom in an “I do declare” sort of way. “Do my cucumber-soothed eyes deceive me, or is that our own sweet Nicola James atop that monster of a motorcycle? Surely not.” She seemed oddly flirty. I kept my guard firmly up.
“Hi, Leslie. Late class?”
“I don’t need to be on campus till noon on Wednesdays. But I can’t imagine what sort of apocalyptic situation lured you away from work.” Her gaze, dragged inexorably back to Sean after each whiff of a glance at me, finally settled in to stay. “Are you the emergency?”
“Guilty as charged,” Sean admitted, oozing charm. “Sean MacInnes, Bad Influence.” This came off as simultaneously cocky and self-deprecating.
Leslie shifted sinuously forward, and I almost expected a little forked tongue to slip between her lips and flicker about in intimidating fashion. But she merely extended her hand, palm down, the picture of silver screen moxie, particularly with the green goo. “Leslie Innerbock, Original Bad Influence,” she purred.
Insert eye roll.
“She seems relatively uncorrupted,” Sean pointed out after dutifully bestowing a kiss and releasing Leslie’s hand.
Leslie’s lip curled; I could tell she was grudgingly impressed. “What can I say? Perhaps you have more persuasive ... tools”—her gaze raked down and lingered before whipping up again—“at your disposal. And what woman can resist a man in a kilt?”
I turned away to hide the grin I could no longer hold back. But conscious of the unpredictability of both participants in this showdown, I knew I’d have to intercede before things got hideously embarrassing. For me, that is. I schooled my features and turned back.
“Whoa. Down, girl. Just think of this motorcycle as that mechanical bull you were telling me about, and it can all be your idea.” I gave the cycle a little pat, willing her to remember her little Friday-night pep talk.
“That is true,” she conceded, as graciously as she’d ever conceded anything. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What matters is you found a man, got yourself a Weird shirt, and damn if you’re not sitting astride a great big vibrating—”
Vvvvvrrrrrrrooooovvvvmmmmm!
Sitting there, caught up in Leslie’s runaway monologue, visualizing it streaking toward its train wreck of a conclusion, I was at a loss. My reaction? A cringe with a twist. My hands had curled reflexively around the handlebars, jerking just enough to rev the engines in one big guttural growl, the mother of all reprimands.
Leslie’s mouth rounded to an “o” and popped shut, a virtually unheard-of reaction.
Sean’s head whipped around in surprise, but then he dimpled me with a knowing grin. I was as shocked as anyone and becoming more and more fond of this bike.
Leslie recovered quickly, and rather than hold a grudge at such a garish interruption, seemed more than a little impressed with my sudden burst of spunk. “In case she doesn’t mention it herself ...” Leslie shot me a look. “Nic comes for karaoke every Friday night. She brings the cupcakes. Get her to invite you along, and we’ll see if you can keep up. And if you can get Nic to sing, I’ll know you’re a god. Wear the kilt.”
I suddenly had an urge to ram her, but before I could act on it, she was sauntering back the way she’d come, giving me a fluttery finger wave and a devilish grin.
Sean watched her go but quickly turned back to me. Before he could comment—I didn’t even want to guess what he might have said—I blurted, “I’m ready.” I’d deal with Leslie’s impromptu invitation later.
I scooted back, giving Sean room to climb on in front, and suddenly outrageously shy, I wrapped my arms loosely, tentatively around Sean’s waist. I managed to make it to the end of the street with my relaxed grip, but once we’d slid into traffic, with cars whizzing by on either side and the pavement stretching in front of us, potholed and bumpy, I quickly traded it for the infinitely more comforting full-body clamp technique. With blustery-crisp wind on my cheeks, I shamelessly spooned him on the streets of the capital city. From chin to knee, every last inch of my body was pressed against the inches of his. I was jittery and shivery, and, surprise, surprise, a bit of a potty mouth. But the roar of the engine and the rush of the wind carried all those words away.
Just as I was getting used to it, we were slowing down, easing into the Central Market parking lot, and killing the engine. I’d done it! I’d trusted and survived. And it hadn’t been so bad. I refused to picture the roads we’d have to take on the next leg of the trip, instead reveling in this one triumphant, exhilarating moment. I felt a bit like I’d conquered the world—and deserved a celebratory cupcake.
We wove our way through the maze of Central Market, stocking up on standard picnic fare: a baguette, a bit of cheese, an eclectic selection from the olive and pickle bars, strawberries, and bottled water. It wasn’t until we were lugging the picnic supplies out into the sunlight in an environmentally conscious canvas bag that I realized the bike didn’t have one of those cool storage compartments or hipster baskets—it was pretty much “what you see is what you get” as far as I could tell. So if Sean was driving, and I was sprawled over the back of him like a bug on the windshield, where exactly did we plan to stash a baguette? Not to mention its accompaniments.
“Has this bike been on a picnic before?” I asked.
He aimed a quizzical look in my direction, covered it with a smile, and lifted his hand to circle the back of my neck. No answer was forthcoming. I tried again.
“Where are the groceries going to ride?” I pressed.
“Between us, where else?” His reply was automatic and positively reeked of male ego. Evidently he’d forgotten how I’d had to peel myself off him, a regular pudding skin, after the first ride. I hadn’t a doubt that this second leg would be considerably more frazzling than the first, given the dips and curves in the roads that led up to Mount Bonnell, and I fully intended to reprise my role as pudding skin.
We would see who fared better: me or the picnic.