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“Oh, darn,” I say to Leroy, slapping the table. “It was nice to meet you. I hope your uncle gets out of the pen soon and you can do something fun together. I hear hunting is a nice hobby. Have a nice night.”
He doesn’t smile or blink at me as he slowly gets up from his chair and moves to Mom’s seat. Good. I hope she gets a good taste of Leroy’s psychotic murdering medicine.
The next few men are a revolving shit show that almost makes me get up and invite Leroy back to my table. One man with a hook nose tells me he can’t go on any dates near schools or parks. Another man tells me he has a gastric problem that results in chronic, uncontrollable farts, lifting his left ass cheek off the chair to demonstrate. The man after that is only nineteen, and I would have picked him if I was younger. However, he only talks about last year’s graduation party and a rager he’s going to next Saturday. One man is nice but is older than my father. Happily, he moves on to Mom, and I cross my fingers under the table that she’ll choose that guy.
At least one of us will find someone tonight.
I bite my nails as the most recent man switches seats, and I almost grab his hand to pull him back. Sure, he has psoriasis, and he pulled out his dental implants to show me his old hockey injury. But if I have to set up further dates with someone for the next few months, he’s the only one that doesn’t smell or seem to have some kind of criminal record. I’m afraid of the next man.
“Hello,” a voice says, sitting down in the seat. I don’t look up. I’m too scared. At this point, I’m expecting the devil himself to sit across from me. “I’m Wilder.”
“Yeah, buddy. Every guy in here thinks he’s a wild man.”
He laughs, and it’s a nice laugh. It’s so nice, that I look up into dazzling green eyes that blink back at me. He cocks his head to the side with a wry smile and makes a humming sound like he’s found something interesting.
A bit of scruff covers his face, but it’s not unkempt. In fact, it’s sexy over his chiseled jaw, and there’s a full head of hair on top of his head. He also hasn’t farted in the ten seconds it’s taken to look at each other, and a quick look at his hands and neck shows no psoriasis.
He holds his hand out to me, and I shake it, noticing the masculine strength of his fingers. “My name is Wilder. Wilder Lynx.”
“Savannah,” I whisper and clear my throat. “I’m Savannah. Wilder is a very unusual name. Is it a nickname?”
“Nah, I think I was named after a character in some book about a farm.”
Man pretty. That’s the word that comes to my mind. This guy is man pretty. He also looks dangerous and smells of tobacco. We stare at each other for a few seconds, sizing each other up again. It feels a little like the time my father took me to a tourist trap where you can pan for gold and I actually found something that wasn’t gravel.
“Are you talking about Laura Ingalls Wilder?” I ask, suddenly putting puzzle pieces together.
“I guess,” he shrugs.
“Is your middle name Almanzo, by chance?”
“That’s a weird question. Is yours?”
I chuckle. “Almanzo Wilder was the main character in Farmer Boy. He was Laura’s husband. I was just wondering if your mom named you after him.”
“No idea. I didn’t have the chance to ask her about it. That’s what I can remember.”
“Just out of curiosity, what is your middle name?” I ask.
“Why do you want to know? Are you going to ask for my hand in marriage and order invitations?”
“Are you flirting with me?” I inch my hand just a smidge closer to his on the table, and the air between our hands practically crackles with electricity. Warmth wafts off his hands and warms my fingertips. The urge to slide my fingers over his skin hits me hard, and I flex my fingers so I don’t touch him without his permission.
He leans over the table, and I inhale his scent. It’s masculine and foresty with a hint of something that makes me think of peppermint and savory dinners. Comforting. As sexy as he is, there’s something that makes me feel like I’m in my living room with a bowl of macaroni and cheese.
“Charles.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, shaking my head to clear my nose of his smell.
“My middle name is Charles.”
I cover my mouth with a laugh, and he scowls. “What’s so funny?”
“That was her father’s… You know what? Let’s move on,” I say, waving my hand. “What do you do for a living, Wilder?”
“I’m a mechanic. Yourself?”
“I’m a librarian. I’m the youth coordinator over in Evergreen Hills. Do you like books?”
