“I’m Ross,” stranger says, leaning over to whisper in my ear.
Ross. Stranger’s name is Ross. I had a great uncle named Ross. He would tap me on the patootie whenever I walked by.
“This is the part where you tell me your name,” he jibes.
“Uuuhhh…” Hot as you are, I can’t date someone with the same name as my creepy great-uncle Ross. Sorry.
He waits, expectantly. Damn, you smell a-freaking-mazing, Ross.
“Uummm…” I swallow, hard and awkwardly loud. Maybe Ross wouldn’t mind being called by his middle name? Unless his middle name is Johnny. Or Ace. Or Wallace. Like you have so many men lined up you have a right to be picky, Laurel.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy Carmen watching me, once again shaking her head in pity, as I search for appropriate words to string together that won’t me look a) like an idiot, or b) desperate. But when I remember the circumstances of why Ross is practically sitting on top of me those words are misplaced, along with my manners, because I don’t offer my name. No. Instead, I turn my back to him in favor of piano man, who now has his gaze squarely fixed on me.
Of course.
The edges of my mouth turn up wryly.
His turn up in amusement.
Stranger—Ross—shifts beside me, reminding me he hasn’t gone anywhere, like he isn’t aware the waft of his subtle, spicy cologne hasn’t already hypnotized me.
“Tonight is a night for lovers, old and new,” piano man says to me, fingers caressing his keyboard as lightly as if he’s running them down the spine of a woman’s back.
Good Lord.
I choke on the lake of spit now pooling in my mouth.
Ross slaps me on the back a few times as the crowd whoops and whistles. He genuinely seems concerned.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I assure him, my voice wheezy. I wave him off, but when I lean back, it’s right into his open arms. I fit as if I belong there. His palm curls around my shoulder and gently squeezes before retreating. I stiffen and manage another look at piano man. He winks. I’m sure he’s playing me now, or perhaps he’s playing Ross.
“Hardin, why don’t you turn the house lights down for this next one.”
No. Please no.
The lights go low, the music kicks up, and piano man starts crooning about the heavens and a rare night for romancing, but when he sings the title of the song, “Mind if I Make Love to You,” I feel like I’ve been inserted into an episode of Friends.
And Ross and I are in the spotlight in this one.
Literally.
There is a wall sconce smack over our heads, which seems not to have dimmed in the slightest. Heat from the lightbulb is singeing the crown of my head. Half of my hem is hanging loose, and my thumb is now bleeding from where it’s chewed to the quick.
I am a hot, bloody, unkempt mess.
As if Ross is only now understanding the horrible predicament he’s let himself be talked into, he starts chuckling. And as the song goes on, with the day of our meeting and how time is fleeting, circling back around to the main lyric about making love, his body shakes with suppressed laughter.
I use the span of my right hand to cover my face in shame, hiding myself from Ross. But he’s not having it. He peels my hand back and says lowly, “Your virtue is safe with me.”
See? This is where I should have taken two seconds to interpret what he meant, which really was, “I’m a nice guy, not a dick who will try to get into your pants on a first date,” but nooo…I went all exorcist on him instead.
I whip my head toward him, my wrath as pungent as spewed vomit. “Why? You don’t find this attractive?” I swipe down the length of me, lingering on the frayed edges, which in truth felt like every inch of me. I detest mustard. “Ketchup more to your liking?”
“What?” he says on a barked laugh, his brows furrowing in wary confusion…or perhaps fear.
“Ketchup? Do you like ketchup?”
My chest puffs out, my eyes feel bugged, and my jaw is clenched tight. I’m quite sure I resemble eleven shades of crazy.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He scratches the stubble lining his jaw, clearly contemplating his options. Save yourself, I think. But he doesn’t flee like a sensible man would. He starts to say something, only he’s interrupted by the waitress finally handing me my cocktail. She holds out a small goblet with a mint leaf floating in tannish liquid. It looks as if it came from the bottom of a well. I take it and sniff. It smells like the bottom of a well too.
“What is this?” I ask, turning my nose up.
“The house special,” she answers me with a slight snap, but when she notices Ross, she becomes sweeter than rock candy. “It’s called the Maiden Voyage.”
I am in the middle of taking a sip when she announces this. Unfortunately for me several things happen in quick succession, none of them good.
I inhale a mouthful of the Maiden Voyage, which is made almost entirely of gin and ginger beer, neither of which I care for. I choke for the second time, and between my sputters and attempts to expel this sludge from my lungs, I faintly register the groan of the chair Ross and I are squeezed into. The groan turns into a creak, which morphs into the echo of wood splintering under too much pressure.
The legs beneath us give way and we crash hard onto the floor before we tumble in a heap of flailing arms and legs.
The music stops cold.
A hush comes over the crowd.
Once again, we are the center of unwanted attention.
“Are you okay?” Ross asks, running his hands over my hair, my face.
“I—”
There is commotion all around us. Strangers rush over. Concerns rain down on us. Several drops of liquid roll from my hairline down into my ear. I smell of pine and humiliation.
“Christ, are you hurt anywhere?” Ross pushes himself up on his forearms and washes a frantic gaze over me.
“I—”
“Talk to me,” Ross demands when I don’t finish.
I can’t. I’m still gasping for air, but it’s no longer because I’m choking, it’s because Ross is squarely on top of me. And the man is thick, solid muscle.
Over Ross’s shoulder I spot Carmen and Manny. Carmen appears slightly alarmed. Manny, however, is laughing his butt off, though he’s trying to cover it up with his drink.
“Chica, you hurt?” Carmen asks.
“I’m fine,” I rasp. I set my hands to Ross’s chest to push him off of me, but holeeey cow. He is built like a brick wall or a linebacker in training.
“You sure you’re okay?”
I nod, my palms still stuck securely to his pecs. They are unreal. Warm. Firm. Wow.
“You can move now,” I tell him, licking my lips.
“You’re sure?” With a grin and a wag of his brows, he flexes first one pec, then the other. I gasp, pretending to be affronted. We both know I’m not. More than moderately turned on, I squeeze my eyes shut.
Lord, take me home now. I’m ready. Please, I’m begging you. Open your pearly gates and let me on in.
Ross laughs before standing up with ease. He holds out a hand to help me up but just as I’m noticing the cool air on certain lady parts, Ross’s gaze zeros in on my utilitarian, white, pee-stained underwear.
Sweet baby Jesus in a cradle. Why me? Perfect way to round out a first fake date.