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The next day, I pulled into the Showtime Movie Theater parking lot, prepared for our dinner date to begin just like every other encounter with Ken had begun—with some smart-ass comment and zero physical contact.
As I parked my Mustang and checked my appearance in the rearview mirror, I gave myself a little pep talk to make sure that my expectations were nice and low.
Listen, homie. This is so not a big deal. You’re gonna go in there, Ken is gonna give you some shit about being five minutes late, and then you guys are gonna ride in an awkward silence to some chain restaurant where he’ll make you order a combo because he has a Buy One, Get One Free coupon. This will not be romantic. This might not even be fun. But it will probably be better than sitting at home, screening your calls. Maybe.
Satisfied with the hair and makeup I’d spent all afternoon working on, I grabbed my purse and slammed my door.
No big deal, I repeated in my head as I crossed the parking lot with my fists shoved in the pockets of my flight jacket. Just a little BOGO dinner between friends.
I stepped up onto the sidewalk and marched past the box office window.
He’ll probably even make me drive to save on gas.
Grabbing the freezing cold handle on the heavy glass door, I had to throw most of my ninety-eight pounds backward just to yank it open.
Warm air blasted me in the face as I stepped inside. Concession stands lined both sides of the large, open foyer, and there, in the middle, addressing a group of zit-faced teenage employees, was Ken’s black-clad alter ego, Mark McKen.
He looked every bit as breathtaking as I remembered from Jason’s Super Bowl party—sexily mussed sandy-brown hair, hands tucked inside the pockets of his casually loose black slacks, biceps straining against the rolled-up sleeves of his black button-up shirt, and that goddamn skinny black tie.
His expression was dead serious as he addressed his teenage minions, but as soon as his eyes landed on me, Ken’s sharp eyebrows lifted along with the corners of his mouth. He said something that made the underlings scatter, then walked across the lobby to where I was trying real hard to keep my saliva inside my face.
“Hey.” He smiled.
“Hey.” I smiled.
“You ready to go?”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded in three slow, exaggerated movements.
Opening the door like it didn’t weigh five tons, Ken held it for me as I stumbled back out.
No sarcastic comment.
No gibe about me being late.
But also, no hug.
Two outta three ain’t bad.
“So, where do you want to go?” Ken asked as he led the way to his little maroon Eclipse convertible parked in the primo front spot.
I wanted to be easygoing and relaxed like the cool girls I knew or coy and demure like the pretty ones, but it simply wasn’t in my nature. I was a headstrong, spoiled only-child with no filter, and when presented with the opportunity to get my way, I took it. Every. Single. Time.
“I love Italian,” I blurted out.
“Really?” Ken asked, meeting my gaze over the roof of his car. “Italian is my favorite.”
Much to my surprise, we didn’t end up at a chain restaurant. We went to some mom-and-pop Italian place that neither of us had ever been to before. And the ride wasn’t an awkward cringe-fest. It was…easy. Fun even. I flipped through Ken’s CD case as he drove—no more than five miles over the speed limit—and squealed in delight over every single album in his collection. He had underground punk, pop punk, ska punk, ska ska, power pop, pop rock, grunge rock, classic rock, alternative rock, and emo for days. Our musical tastes were so similar; I think we could have switched CD cases without ever realizing it.
“No fucking way,” I gasped, clapping a hand over my mouth.
“What?” Ken glanced at me in amusement.
I stared at him with wide, astonished eyes.
“What?”
“This is what!” I held the heavy black canvas CD case up, open to the last sleeve. “You have Marvin the Album by Frente!?”
