“I’m learning I don’t have a type.” And I like that new discovery about me. “Plus, I’m expanding my horizons.”
“Is he in a motorcycle club?” she asks.
“I don’t know?”
“Did he have patches?”
Clearly, I failed at this date. If his sexiness hadn’t consumed me, I would have noticed that detail. “I was busy Jell-O wrestling, so things kind of slipped by me.”
In slow motion, Austin turns around. “I don’t… Did I hear that correctly? Jell-O wrestling?”
“Is it really so shocking?” I could bring up the handcuffs I found in his room, but I won’t.
“Well yeah, it kind of is,” Lucy says, with wonder-filled eyes. “But opposites do attract.”
“We’re not that different,” I say. “Are we?”
“Polar. He’s a biker,” she says. “You rarely go out. You’re…you’re a homebody.” She places her hand on mine. “Not that staying at home is bad. I worked with a girl once who people nicknamed Boring Belinda. Sounds mean, but God, she really was boring. Like prop your eyelids open with toothpicks boring. Once, I dozed off in a meeting when she presented a new campaign. Anyway, the point of the story. As boring as she was, she ended up married to a guy in a rock band. Maybe this guy is your rockstar. See?”
Um, no, I don’t see. Is she implying I’m boring? If she wasn’t so nice, I’d find it offensive. Am I boring? Lucy would have thrown her hands in the air and squealed with glee as Dune rocketed across town at ninety miles an hour. She would never put nap dates on a list, which is why she gets nap dates. Oh God, I’m boring. I’m never going to get my bad boy kiss once he realizes I’m Comatose Chloe. Charlotte inadvertently teased me with something I really want, but will never attain.
“Hold one moment, please.” I scoot away from the table and zip across the tiled floor. “I’ll be right back.”
Dull people don’t do what I’m about to do. I fish my phone out of my bag and type out a message to Dune.
“Maybe you should pick me up at three o’clock since it’s your favorite number?”
Okay, maybe they do. That was lame. I’ll think of something better after I eat.
“So are you seeing him again?” Lucy asks when I return.
“Yes. Next Saturday, he’s taking me rock climbing.” Austin’s judgies are palpable as he pats the bacon with a paper towel so I say, “Look, he’s a respectable accountant, not a criminal.”
“You had no idea Finn was a millionaire in training with a stepmother fetish, so yeah”—he lifts a brow—“your endorsement is weak.”
“It’s not like I can just ask him if he’s in a gang.” How does one address that without being offensive?
“I can ask him,” he says.
“Oh my God, no.”
He finally drops it to focus on finding the crispest leaves of lettuce with the perfect crinkle edges. Forty minutes later, when I gobble my gourmet sandwich, I wonder how it’s possible that someone so anal can also be so hot. Perhaps, I should add it to my list of approved qualities.
Three
Things I Never Realized Turned Me On:
Country music
Wallets on a chain
Spreadsheets
Dune’s naughty lip ring all but begs me to make out with it while he rambles on about the importance of spreadsheets.
“If I ever get my business going, I’ll use one to keep things organized,” I promise as he drives through town to our rock date destination.
“Do it. It’s a calculator come to life,” he says with such passion, I want to live in a spreadsheet.
He’s so intelligent and has shared all kinds of business advice this week in our text messages and calls.
“Just need to make a quick drop at the clubhouse,” he says, turning down a tree-lined road.
Can’t help but notice he said drop and not stop. My heart pounds and not the pitter-patter kind from staring at him. Is this Jeep filled with drugs?
“What are you dropping off?” I ask, casually.
“The helmet from last week.”
Ah, phew. All week Austin has planted doubts in my mind that Dune is nefarious. I’ll be happy to report my bad boy is a good boy.
He stops at a gate bearing two skulls with snakes slithering in their eye sockets. “Let me in,” he says to the intercom.
“What’s the magic word?” a female voice asks.
Nice. Equal opportunity employers.
He huffs and then says, “Please.”
I smile as whoever is on the other side swings open the gate and allows us access to a sprawling area of land. It’s not the warehouse-style clubhouse I expected to see. At the end of the drive sits a massive two-story log house with a wide front porch. Okay, I can handle this.
“This is beautiful. It looks like somewhere I’d want to sit and sip hot chocolate by the fire on a snowy day.”
Dune grins. “It’s the Pres’s house.”
Ah, they have a president. While that hierarchy sinks in, he parks by a cluster of motorcycles.
“It’s picnic day. Let’s grab something to eat before we head out.”
Um, picnicking is not a quick drop. Why must everyone spring things upon me at the last minute? Someone needs to put that in the dating rule handbook, because none of my extensive research says to blindside your date with meeting new people. Not to mention, we brought nothing to the picnic. Granny Mae always says to never come empty-handed.
“Well, we didn’t bring any food.”
“No one cares,” he says, retrieving the helmet off the back seat.
Sure they don’t. They may say that, but if this relationship continues, I’ll be nicknamed something horrible like Freeload. “Is there a nearby market?”
He grins. “You’re adorable. But they really don’t care.”
In my biker etiquette research, I learned that challenging your man is frowned upon, and... I already know that’s something I’ll never follow.
“She cares.” I point to a passing woman in jean shorts with an armload of Tupperware.
“Maggie,” he calls out to her.
She waves and pivots. “Hey, Dune.”
“Can you come here for a second?” She nods and sashays up to the Jeep. “My girl refuses to go in without food. Says it’s rude. Can you spare something?”
Gasp. His girl. The fact he ratted me out is forgiven immediately under the terms of the Bad Boy Law of the Universe.
“Sure.” She hands him a square container. “Take these cookies.”
“That’s so nice of you,” I say, awed by her generosity. “Thank you. I’ll pay for them.”
“No, no. Girl, we’re good. Don’t mention it,” she says. “See you out back.”
“Happy now?” he asks when she’s gone.
“Very. That was sweet of her.”
With my borrowed cookies, we head to a manicured backyard laden with beards, red gingham tablecloths, and an assortment of food. Anything you could want—burgers, hot dogs, ribs, potato and pasta salads, grilled chicken, on and on. All things that would work as a first date wedding dinner. Not that I’m even thinking of getting married, but anywho. No one seems to mind our sporty attire, possibly because Dune has accessorized his black athletic shorts and Harley T-shirt with a leather vest.