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Chapter 3
Tootsie
Roger’s hand reaches over the table and covers mine. A zing races through me at his touch. This guy is a dreamboat! When he answered the door looking like a young Paul Newman, with dirty blond hair and bright blue eyes, I about swooned. Now I’m sitting next to him in the kitchen, getting drunk on his scent of motor oil and pure masculinity.
“Would you like to go out for dinner tonight?” he asks. He must see the shock on my face because he rushes to explain, “I know we just met. But I feel like we have a connection, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
I may have had a moment of shock, but I’m not a fool. “Sure, I’d love to have dinner with you.”
“Great. I’ll go get cleaned up and be back in five minutes.” He stands, brushes his knuckles over my cheek, and leans down until his lips brush over the sensitive shell of my ear. He whispers, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, and I want to make you proud.”
He walks down the hallway disappearing through a doorway. I fan my face for the full five minutes, trying not to imagine him undressing in the bedroom just a few feet away. When he emerges, my breath catches and my lady parts clench. Damn. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans, with a black leather jacket hanging over his shoulder like a movie star.
When he tucks my hand in his arm and walks me to the door like a gentleman, my heart gives a little pitter patter. When he guides me to his 1957 Chevy Bel Air, it skips two beats. And when he holds my hand as we head to the local diner with the top down, it stops beating altogether. This is what I’ve read about in all those romance novels. Only, instead of being a fantasy, it's really happening. I squeeze his hand, trying to convince myself this is real. He smiles and squeezes back. It’s real. Thank god, it’s real.
A few minutes later, our server guides us to our seats. Sitting across from Roger feels like I’m in a 50’s musical. He looks so good, I can’t stop my lips from smiling or my heart from hoping. “So, what do you do? Something with cars?” I ask.
“What makes you think that?” He holds out his oil-stained hands and smiles wryly. “Actually, I restore old cars like the one outside.”
“Wow, that’s incredible.” I’m not joking. It’s always fascinated me that there are people who can take a machine apart and put it back together better than before. “How did you get into restoring cars?”
“I actually learned it from my Gramps. We would spend evenings and weekends together in the garage, working on whatever project he was in the middle of.” He smiles at the memories. “He taught me everything I know about cars and life.” He shifts his attention to me. “What about you? I know you work at the library. How did you end up in Fairview?”
“Oh, I’ve always loved books, so being a librarian was always at the top of the list. But then in high school, I had friends who mostly watched TV. Between binging on shows, they’d be bored and come to me for book recommendations. It always felt magical to match the right book to the right person.”
I take a sip of my Coke. “When a job came open in Fairview, I jumped on it. My folks and I had passed through here a few times on a road trip, and I had a good feeling about the town. When I saw the work they’d done on Vincent Street, it was a done deal. And now here I am. Just me and my cat. I named him after Mr. Darcy.”
“Who is Mr. Darcy?”
My mouth drops open in surprise. “You don’t know who Mr. Darcy is?” I demand. His head shakes. “Pride and Prejudice? Jane Austen?”
“Is she that woman that works with gorillas?” he asks with complete innocence.
“No, that’s Jane Goodall.” I can hardly believe I’m having this conversation. But I guess he’s a mechanic, and didn’t spend too much time in the classics section of his local bookstore. Regardless, it’s time for some education, “Jane Austen is an English novelist from the late 18th century, and Pride and Prejudice is probably her most famous book. They’ve even made it into a movie multiple times!”
“Huh, I’ve never heard of it.”
My heart is hurting for book lovers everywhere. I press a hand to my chest, take a breath, and try to scrounge up a smile. “I don’t know if I can seriously date someone who doesn’t know who Mr. Darcy is.” Part of me is teasing and part of me is one hundred percent serious.
“Well, I’d better check it out then.”
My shoulders slump in relief at his response. Good answer.
The rest of the date goes well. He’s the one. He is so easy to talk to. Everything just feels right. We finish our meal with one strawberry milkshake and two straws. It sounds cheesy, but when we gaze into each other's eyes I actually feel like we connect on a soul level.
Not to mention the chemistry. At the end of the night he walks me to my car. After his courteous behavior the entire evening, I expect a kiss on the cheek, at most a peck on the lips. Apparently good night kisses are where he draws the line on good behavior, because his good night kiss is anything but proper.
My body heats at the feel of his perfect mouth on mine. His hands hold me flush against him, grinding against me until I mold my curves to his hardness. It’s sexy, sensual, and overwhelming, and I want more. Gradually, our kisses slow until we’re hugging intimately. I take the chance to catch my breath.
“Good night, baby girl.” He opens my car door for me and helps me in.
As I drive away, I realize this has been the most perfect date of my life. I feel like I’m finally living my own romance, instead of reading someone else’s. And it feels really good.
***
The next day at work, I’m still reliving the date when my thoughts are interrupted by my boss calling, “Tootsie, can you join me in my office for a few minutes?”
The heat leaves my system in an instant. It’s never good when your boss wants a private meeting. I walk stiffly into her office, anxiety pulsing through me.
