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“Listen, Georgie, I know I just met you and this might sound crazy, but I’m going to marry you one day. I know I haven’t made a spectacular first impression, so can I take you out tonight and try again?”
Well, that’s what I wanted to say, planned to say . . .
Instead, all that comes out of my mouth is, “Boobs.”
Georgie
Alfie. Lactose intolerant, adorable, and proud owner of two left feet.
He lies in the garden bed, flattening my chard, and I wonder if he knocked himself out on the way down.
If I were him, I would be on my feet and running away in humiliation half a second after the disastrous spill. But soon enough, he’s standing up, shaking the dirt from his dusty blond curls-that-aren’t-quite-curls-but-are-more-than-just-waves.
He brushes lingering dirt from his navy slacks and trains his green eyes back on me. A spark lights up my spine and . . . oh my, a little lower too. I find myself wanting to duck behind the counter as he approaches.
There is absolutely nothing intimidating about his lean, lanky frame or colorful polo. Even his ears, which stick out slightly, should be disarming. But he has this unexpected confidence as he strides back up to my trailer, like a class clown who doesn't care what anyone thinks and is just going to do him. That was never me.
It’s not that I’m painfully shy or awkward—owning a coffee shop, I can’t be—but I’m not loud, daring, or bold. I’m never the biggest personality in the room, and that’s just fine with me.
He stops in front of the window and my cheeks heat before he even opens his mouth. Once he does, they burn red-hot.
“Boobs.”
His jaw pops open like he’s shocked by what just came out of his mouth. Now I don’t know whose cheeks are pinker.
He begins to sputter. “I—uh—what I meant—I mean—oh, holy hells.” He sighs with a shake of his head.
“Um . . . thank you?” I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to say to that, and a small laugh escapes me. His eyes, which were affixed to his feet, jump up to mine and the smile that forms on his lips makes my stomach flutter.
“That’s obviously not what I meant— Not to say that you don’t have the finest jugs I’ve ever damn seen.” He gives me a crooked smile that makes me laugh again, and somehow I feel less embarrassed by the second.
“Truly, they belong in a museum—” He makes that face again like he’s taken by surprise by his own words and waves his hands in a frazzled attempt to rephrase. “I don’t mean that like you’re an object! Just that you’re a fucking work of art.”
He has one of those cool East-Coast accents that reminds me of TheSopranos. More specific than that is anyone's guess. Boston, Long Island, Jersey, they all sound the same to me.
Now, I know what I’m supposed to say: thank you. But something about him must be contagious because instead I shock myself when I reply, “Would you want to grab drinks with me tonight?”
