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He really did have a cute butt. And the cargo pants he always wore hugged that cute butt nicely.
She shouldn’t be looking at his cute butt. He didn’t fit her algorithm. She didn’t have to look at his profile to know that.
* * *
JASON WAS SMILING as he walked out of Marsie’s office. If someone had told him yesterday that prim and starchy Marsie Penny would use the words “someone’s pants” while at work, he would have asked when pot had become legal in North Carolina. Right now, he just wished he was still in her office, flirting and joking, rather than walking out to put together a bookshelf in some guy’s office.
At least he knew she had long fingers. He’d felt every inch of her hand when she’d put her palm against him and gave him a slight push. Elegant fingers, just like she was elegant in every other aspect.
He shook his hand. He never thought he’d describe a woman’s hand as elegant, but here he was. Unfortunately, his heart hadn’t fluttered. He had a date tomorrow night, and the few chats he and Willow had exchanged weren’t nearly as interesting as his talks with Marsie.
Maybe Willow would be more interesting in person. Her picture was cute, which was a good start for a heart flutter.
CHAPTER FIVE
MARSIE STOOD ON the street outside Raleigh Times and waited for her date. It was a Wednesday night, so the streets were quiet. Only a few groups of people and several couples had to walk around her, and not a single one of the bike-bars—made up of fifteen or so people bicycling and drinking in tandem around a bar—had passed her to yell.
She pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, wishing she’d remembered her coat. The weather was warm for mid-January, but that didn’t mean warm. With working on the grant, she hadn’t had time to run home and change, so she’d switched out her suit jacket for a pretty light pink cardigan with a subtle sequin design in the hopes that she’d look less formal. The cardigan wasn’t as warm as her jacket had been. And in what world was a sheath dress less overdressed simply because she was wearing a cardigan and not a matching jacket, she didn’t know. But she was sticking with her story, because otherwise she’d feel self-conscious for looking like a banker while waiting for a date at a bar.
Everyone who passed her on the streets was wearing jeans. She should have made time to run home.
No, she had a grant to apply for. She should keep a date outfit in her office. Then she could look breezy casual at a moment’s notice. A trio of women passed in tight jeans, a variety of patterns and shapes to blouses visible through open coats, and high heels, giving Marsie the idea that she should put a couple different outfits in her office. Maybe she would go on a second date and need something else to wear. Or her one outfit wouldn’t be appropriate. She should be prepared. She’d go shopping with Beck this weekend. Beck would have ideas.
Her feet were starting to hurt. Pumps and a sheath dress. There was no way she looked like a fun date. God, even if she had changed her profile information from the boring description of her accomplishments to the light, offhand paragraph about nothing, she was boring at her core. She read math books for fun, for Pete’s sake. The grant application was all she could think of right now. There was no way she’d be able to make jokes and be personable.
And the stakes were too high to do anything else. So much pressure. If she wanted to be married and have kids, she needed to start now. She should have started earlier. She shouldn’t have spent so much time building a career.
Except her work was important and interesting. At least to her. It wasn’t interesting to anyone else. She should cancel the date before she bored Waterski25—Everett—to death.
Dammit. She recognized the self-doubt birds chattering in her brain. They showed up on a regular basis, especially when she was trying something new. The last time she’d tried online dating, those birds had followed her around like something out of a horror movie. She’d be sitting at a bar, enjoying her conversation, and the birds would swoop in and comment on some vague look in the man’s eye. That look isn’t interest. It’s his eyes glazing over. He’s bored. He’s glanced at the waitress five times in the past ten minutes. He wants the check. He’s bored.
