exact right thing.
Lucky guess, but there’s nothing that will cheer me up like a bowl of hot miso and some delicate, foodie, Americanized tuna rolls. And Sushi Mizu is my favorite . Seriously, how did he know?
I should have said no, but then there was that damn dimple.
I should have definitely said no, but it’s like I can’t summon that word when I’m around this guy. There’s just something about him.
“It’s my favorite spot in the city,” he says.
Goddammit. “Me too.”
He peels his hand off my shoulder, and places it, just for a brief moment, on the small of my back, as if guiding me away from whatever state I was just in. The warmth of his hand sends a line of heat up my spine to my cheeks, and straight down between my legs.
We walk in silence to the car where he makes a joke of opening the driver’s side door for me.
“The lady drives, of course, but a gentleman opens the door for her.”
It’s so stupid but I can’t help giggling a little. And when I pass between his body and the car, I catch a quick whiff of his cologne, or aftershave, mixed in with just a little bit of sweat, and I feel almost dizzy as I slip into my seat.
“Thanks,” I say in a daze.
He leans over me, around the frame of the car, and it’s just… I want to touch him. I feel a wash of heat go through me, from my heart to my core. I can feel my pulse between my legs.
“No problem.”
He closes the door for me and circles around while I try to get my breathing under control.
This is going to be a long car drive.
T o defend myself against his stupid aftershave smell and his stupid delts and biceps and pecs, I crank up the music and sing along. Green Day, the dorkiest of bands to still love. Maybe that’ll drive him off? At least his one dimple is pointed the other way so I don’t have to see it out of the corner of my eye when he smiles at me. Which he keeps doing, despite all of my efforts to let my freak flag fly, warbling along to Green Day’s greatest hits.
All of my plans seem to be backfiring. He sings along with me, and now we’re belting out “21 Guns” at the top of our lungs and it’s fun. Fuck everything, I’m having actual fun. He rolls down his window and then I do too and now we’re howling into the late afternoon, bouncing in the car seats, glancing at each other every so often and laughing.
Fuck it. If trying to drive him off isn’t working, if crying in front of him wasn’t a total deal-breaker, if I’m a huge mess right now and I don’t know what I want, but he’s really hot and this is fun, why not ?
For the rest of dinner, I stop trying to push him away. I stop trying to end our date – fine it’s a date – or scare him off, or weird him out, and we end up having a great time. We get a coveted seat on the roof at Mizu (a moment when I’m reminded that Liam seems to have quite a lot of money, because the hostess greets him as Mr. Liam and shows him right to the best table) and watch the sun set over the city, eating tempura and drinking hot sake, and I’m completely underdressed in my sweaty beater. But so is he, and it’s great.
And we talk about all sorts of stuff. Even Alan, and once I get started on that, it’s hard not to let the whole story spill out. Our sensible, long-term-planning romance, our perfect courtship. And finding him in bed with the waitress from our favorite restaurant. At least this time I don’t cry. Usually the humiliation of reliving that detail brings on the tears.
Liam also asks me a ton about my clock shop, seems really interested in my process and my business. He seems a lot more interested in getting to know me rather than talking about himself — it’s refreshing. With Alan we were always talking about his cases, the politics, his world. There’s only so much to say about making clocks, is what he always said. But Liam seems really interested in the details of my life.
“Bluebird happens to be a great name for a clock shop,” he says.
Lucky guess, but there’s nothing that will cheer me up like a bowl of hot miso and some delicate, foodie, Americanized tuna rolls. And Sushi Mizu is my favorite . Seriously, how did he know?
I should have said no, but then there was that damn dimple.
I should have definitely said no, but it’s like I can’t summon that word when I’m around this guy. There’s just something about him.
“It’s my favorite spot in the city,” he says.
Goddammit. “Me too.”
He peels his hand off my shoulder, and places it, just for a brief moment, on the small of my back, as if guiding me away from whatever state I was just in. The warmth of his hand sends a line of heat up my spine to my cheeks, and straight down between my legs.
We walk in silence to the car where he makes a joke of opening the driver’s side door for me.
“The lady drives, of course, but a gentleman opens the door for her.”
It’s so stupid but I can’t help giggling a little. And when I pass between his body and the car, I catch a quick whiff of his cologne, or aftershave, mixed in with just a little bit of sweat, and I feel almost dizzy as I slip into my seat.
“Thanks,” I say in a daze.
He leans over me, around the frame of the car, and it’s just… I want to touch him. I feel a wash of heat go through me, from my heart to my core. I can feel my pulse between my legs.
“No problem.”
He closes the door for me and circles around while I try to get my breathing under control.
This is going to be a long car drive.
T o defend myself against his stupid aftershave smell and his stupid delts and biceps and pecs, I crank up the music and sing along. Green Day, the dorkiest of bands to still love. Maybe that’ll drive him off? At least his one dimple is pointed the other way so I don’t have to see it out of the corner of my eye when he smiles at me. Which he keeps doing, despite all of my efforts to let my freak flag fly, warbling along to Green Day’s greatest hits.
All of my plans seem to be backfiring. He sings along with me, and now we’re belting out “21 Guns” at the top of our lungs and it’s fun. Fuck everything, I’m having actual fun. He rolls down his window and then I do too and now we’re howling into the late afternoon, bouncing in the car seats, glancing at each other every so often and laughing.
Fuck it. If trying to drive him off isn’t working, if crying in front of him wasn’t a total deal-breaker, if I’m a huge mess right now and I don’t know what I want, but he’s really hot and this is fun, why not ?
For the rest of dinner, I stop trying to push him away. I stop trying to end our date – fine it’s a date – or scare him off, or weird him out, and we end up having a great time. We get a coveted seat on the roof at Mizu (a moment when I’m reminded that Liam seems to have quite a lot of money, because the hostess greets him as Mr. Liam and shows him right to the best table) and watch the sun set over the city, eating tempura and drinking hot sake, and I’m completely underdressed in my sweaty beater. But so is he, and it’s great.
And we talk about all sorts of stuff. Even Alan, and once I get started on that, it’s hard not to let the whole story spill out. Our sensible, long-term-planning romance, our perfect courtship. And finding him in bed with the waitress from our favorite restaurant. At least this time I don’t cry. Usually the humiliation of reliving that detail brings on the tears.
Liam also asks me a ton about my clock shop, seems really interested in my process and my business. He seems a lot more interested in getting to know me rather than talking about himself — it’s refreshing. With Alan we were always talking about his cases, the politics, his world. There’s only so much to say about making clocks, is what he always said. But Liam seems really interested in the details of my life.
“Bluebird happens to be a great name for a clock shop,” he says.
Similar Books
Silent Hall
NS Dolkart
The Journey
Jennifer Ensley
Say You’re One Of Them
Uwem Akpan
The Doll
Boleslaw Prus
Bamboo People
Mitali Perkins
The Murder Book
Jonathan Kellerman
Secret Love
Simone Kaplan
Animal Kingdom
Iain Rob Wright
The Dirigibles of Death
A. Hyatt Verrill
The Year My Mother Came Back
Alice Eve Cohen