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His motorcycle is in the Chinese Pagoda parking lot, and I park next to it. Prompt. Checking my watch, I’m three minutes early, and he beat me here. Maybe we don’t have a lot in common, but he’s not rude, and he seems to like me in return. That alone will likely get us through a few movies or lunches.
He gets out of the booth and stands as I approach. My heart pounds against my rib cage as I look him up and down, appreciating the black motorcycle boots that are untied at the top, the dark jeans, and the long-sleeved dress shirt that’s open at the neck. The look is stockbroker that rides his bike to work.
“Hi, Savannah,” he says, doing the same up and down look without trying to make it obvious. “Good to see you.”
Heat darkens my cheeks under his gaze, and I have the sudden urge to stare at his crotch again. Why do I keep wanting to do that?
He gets his phone out and sets it on the table at the same time that the waiter fills our water glasses and sets menus and wrapped silverware in front of us. “I need to get your phone number,” Wilder says as the waiter walks away.
“Oh, sure.” I put my hand out for the phone, and he unlocks the screen and passes it across the table.
That’s weird. His phone contacts are up, and I press the plus sign to add my name and phone number. I can’t help to notice that he has years in his contact list. There’s a 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, and 2022. Maybe he uses his contact list to keep track of something and remember numbers. My friend, Melissa, uses her contact list to keep track of passwords where nobody will suspect. He may do something similar.
I hand him his phone, he types, and my phone pings in my purse. “There, now you have my number.”
We make small talk about the hockey game on the TV across the bar until we give our orders, and I mentally note his go-to Chinese order is sweet and sour chicken. It’s not until the waiter places a plate of eggroll appetizers in front of us that my heart reaches a steady rhythm. I reach for one and notice my hands are still shaking.
“Savannah, I’d like to talk about cuffing season,” he says, dipping an eggroll in soy sauce.
“Oh, thank God,” I begin. “Do you have any Halloween parties or holiday parties you need a date for? I’m happy to go. We can do that thing where we pretend we’ve been together for a long time. My library has a small holiday thing, and…”
He puts up his hand, interrupting me with one gesture. “Did you just want me for parties and events?” He frowns and squints, his forehead creasing with the movement. And I suddenly feel like the world’s biggest asshole.
“Look, I like you. In fact, I like you a lot,” I say, my voice husky, and I hate myself for it. “But I’m just not in a place where I can have a serious thing. I thought we’d be a good fit for holiday parties and maybe a few movies or lunches.”
He settles against the back of the booth and drapes his arms over the seat. “Right,” he whispers.
“I-it’s just that t-this is cuffing s-season,” I stutter and inhale sharply, trying to build up courage. “It’s not meant to be a long-term thing.”
He brightens and leans forward. “I wanted to talk about that. I totally agree.”
“You do? It just seemed like you were disappointed.”
He shrugs. “Only with one little detail.”
“What detail?”
He waffles his head back and forth and opens his mouth to speak just as the waiter arrives with our food. I unwrap my cutlery, but I don’t thank the waiter or even look at him. I’m focused on Wilder.
“What disappoints you about me?”
He takes a bite of food and chews. He doesn’t answer until he swallows and takes a sip of water. “Nothing disappoints me about you. You’re fucking gorgeous, and any man would walk over hot coals to spend five months with you.”
“What is it then?”
“I want more out of this arrangement.”
Oh, shit. This is going to be about sex. He’s going to want to have sex with me. Not that I’m averse to sex with him. Lord knows he’s sexy, and my mother would probably throw a new car on the deal if she thinks I’m getting regular dick. But I’m so inexperienced, and he’s…definitely not. The fact that he’s been around the block a few times practically oozes from his pores. What if I fuck up? What if I move wrong or do something wrong in bed? Will he initiate sex, or will I have to do some intricate thing with my underwear I don’t know about? Fuck, why don’t I know these things?
“What do you want?” Damn, why did I have to bat my eyes and whisper when I said that?
He takes a sip of the beer in front of him. “I want companionship.”
“You want sex.” It just comes out of my mouth.
“I wouldn’t decline a night in your bed, but I was thinking of other companionship.”
I tilt my head, utterly confused.
