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A few moments pass. Gary flashes me a faint, uncertain smile, probably regretting the moment he asked me out. “Wine?”
“Hell, yeah.” Because once you put your foot in your mouth, booze of any form helps to swallow.
The waiter comes, we order, and then we stare at each other.
Well, I stare at him, wondering where my social skills have gone. “So, Gary… How old are you?”
“Thirty-one. You?”
“Twenty-one. And uh… What do you do for a living?”
“I work in a law firm as a legal secretary. You?”
“I man the front desk at Collateral Damage. The tattoo shop.”
Well, look at that. He’s just the guy I have been waiting for. Older than me. With an education and a good job. Polite. Polished. I take in his crisp white shirt, the jacket carefully thrown over the back of his chair, his artfully tousled hair, his perfectly clean, buffed nails.
Wait, did he get a manicure? Do guys do that?
“So… you’re a bad boy, huh?” he asks, a glint in his eyes, and it takes me an ass-long moment to make sense of his words.
Am I? “Nah. Just your average receptionist.”
I reach up to rub the back of my neck and stop myself. Why am I so uncomfortable? I wish the wine was here already.
As if hearing my thoughts, a waiter materializes by my side and pours me a drop of red wine. When I lift a brow at the pitiful quantity, Gary clears his throat and flashes the waiter an embarrassed smile.
“Try the wine and tell him if it’s okay,” he hisses at me between his teeth.
All right. Sure. What the fuck.
Throttling the urge to hiss back at Gary, I swallow the drop, lift my glass, and drawl, “S’fine. Passes the poison test.”
“Raine!” Gary hisses again, lifting a hand in front of his face as if trying to hide.
What’s with the hissing anyway? What is he, a snake? Is he laughing, or is he really embarrassed?
Why do I feel like I should go stand in the corner until the end of the class?
The moment the waiter steps away, I swallow half my wine in one gulp, unable to help a grimace. I’m more of a Jack and beer sort of guy.
Now why did I think this fucking “dating” thing would be a good idea? I don’t date. Screwing around with a guy or two isn’t the same thing.
Relax, I tell myself for the tenth time in this past hour. Give it a try. Give it a chance. Give Gary a chance. Weren’t you thinking two minutes ago that he’s exactly what you’d been hoping for?
I eye him over the rim of my glass, annoyed that his face still doesn’t ring a bell. He’s handsome. I guess. In a clean-cut, clean-dressed, all-American man sort of way. Like, I dunno… Zac Efron.
Only not really.
Plus his cologne is making me wanna sneeze. And when I look at his mouth, I only feel like asking him if he wore braces as a kid and if he thinks that goatee really is such a good idea.
It’s fashionable, probably. I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t tell you what passes for trendy if it bit me in the fucking ass and called me daddy.
Am I attracted to this guy?
Is it a bad sign that I have to ask myself the question?
And then he leans forward, eyes half-closed, and whispers, “I like bad boys. And I like it hard and rough, if you get my drift.”
