“She might not have thought of it before, right?”
“It’s only helpful to pass on a tip.”
“We’re like Career Doctors,” I say.
I take another drink right as the guy at the table next to us looks up from his tablet, clears his throat, and says to his companion, “I heard about this new face lotion. It’s made with Vitamin C. It firms up your skin.”
“Are you saying I need to firm up my skin?” says his date.
“We all need to firm up our skin,” he says.
With a smile she can’t hide, Rachel dips her face, mouthing he’s a skin doctor.
I whisper back, “That sounds filthy.”
“Can’t help it. I’m inappropriate.”
“You’re very inappropriate,” I say.
She lifts her mug, takes another sip, then sighs contentedly. “I love chocolate.”
“I know, Rachel. I know.”
And I know that the feeling of being a dating king won’t last. Focusing on Rachel is easy. Just like focusing on football is when I’m practicing or playing.
But that’s not my issue with dating.
The issue is that the first date is just an illusion. It’s supposed to feel good. It’s supposed to seduce you. Then, before you know it, you’re asking her to move in, and you’re buying a ring, and bam. She’s peeling out of town with her ten-thousand-dollar diamond and using it to start her new life.
It’s not about the money. I don’t need my ten grand back. But I also don’t need the hassle or the hurt of a relationship.
Best to just enjoy this first-date feeling while it lasts. It’ll vanish soon enough. Always has. Always will.
A few minutes later, Elodie returns with two identical sleek black trays, each with five kinds of chocolate. “Hand-selected by the chocolatier,” she says, then points to each treat. “Each tray has…a pecan toffee, a champagne truffle, a chocolate square with dark caramel, an Aztec-spice bonbon with cinnamon, and an orange zest-infused square.”
Rachel beams at her friend. “Can you arrange to have this sent to my home each morning? It’s part of my new self-care routine. I’m going on a chocolate diet.”
“Best diet ever,” Elodie replies, then waves as she heads off. “Enjoy.”
Don’t need to tell me twice. “I think I will,” I say, then reach for a chocolate.
But when Rachel grabs one too, my brain lights up like a Times Square marquee. “Stop!”
“What?” she asks, seeming worried.
More pleased than I have a right to be, I grab my phone. “Smile for the camera.”
“Oh, right,” she says with a laugh. “I was having such a good time I forgot.”
“I didn’t,” I say, and when she blanches, I quickly add, “I meant I didn’t forget. But I am having an excellent time.”
“Good.”
“And I’d better set a reminder to shoot a video the next time too,” I say, and like that, her smile disappears, like a candle’s gone out.
Mine flickers away too.
Because…my next date won’t be with her.
Does she dislike that thought as much as I do? No idea, but it twists my gut for a few seconds. When I lift the phone to shoot the video, she grabs it from my hand. “No one wants to see me. They want to see the football stud falling for chocolate.”
I arch a dubious brow. “I don’t think that’s a thing.”
“Oh, it is. It definitely is,” she says, a little flirty.
“Pretty sure that’s not on any woman’s dating profile—Seeking pro baller who loves chocolate.”
“Maybe it’s on mine,” she says.
“I’ll check later and see.”
“You do that. Now, eat it,” she demands, and I pop the chocolate square with the caramel center into my mouth. It melts, and I moan. Obscenely. When I finish it, I breathe out a long, satisfied, “Wow.”
She hits end, sets the phone down, then smiles at me like she’s made a platinum jewelry sale. “It’s like you had a chocolategasm.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah. That’s it.”
“And women will like it. You kind of made an O face.”
I’d like to see your O face.
And on that wildly inappropriate thought, I try my hardest to divert all my attention to this date, not to images of Rachel’s lips parting in pleasure, her back arching, her toes curling in bliss. That’s way better than chocolate.
Snagging the phone, I click on the camera again, flipping it to selfie mode. “This series is all about great first dates, so let’s be honest,” I say to the camera. “A woman’s enjoyment is the number-one thing that makes a date good.”
I swivel the phone to angle on her. “Rachel, are you having a good time?”
With a seductive smile, she says, “The best.” She pops the champagne truffle between those lush pink lips, then rolls her eyes in delight. “That is soooo good,” she says, in pure, sensual praise. A woman aroused by chocolate.
This—right here—is peak dating goals. Not just the arousal, but the happiness gleaming in her eyes too.
As she takes another bite of the truffle, I try to remember the last time I saw her like this. Maybe before she met her husband? I don’t even know. She wasn’t unhappy when she was with Edward, but she was more buttoned up. More poised. When I’d see her out with the friend group during the five years that she was with him, she seemed a little like she was playing the part of Sophisticated Rachel.
Maybe that was who Edward wanted her to be. His poised, elegant wife.
Now, she’s shedding that side of herself. She’s a little silly, a lot flirty, and very dirty.
She’s the woman who fell asleep at my place late one night after a party in our early twenties, then wandered blearily around in the early morning muttering pancakes, pancakes, pancakes. She said she’d been dreaming about pancakes. Then, she went to the kitchen and whipped up a fantastic batch of cinnamon-roll pancakes.
She’s the Rachel who knocked on my door during my first year as a starter for the Renegades and said, “Congrats on your first reception. Now let’s see if you can do the Cats with Careers puzzle in one evening.”
I showed that 500-piece puzzle who was boss in two mere hours.
I record a few more seconds, but when I’ve got enough footage, I put the phone away and just enjoy the company.
We finish the chocolate together, praising each piece as we go. When we’re done, I waggle my empty plate. “Want to lick it clean?”
“Don’t tempt me. I will,” she says, then sticks out her tongue and flicks it.
I bet she never did that with Edward. And since I am a competitive fucker, I can’t resist asking, “Scale of one to ten, how awesome is a chocolate café for a date?”
She taps her chin while staring at the ceiling, then says, “The Date Doctors give it one hundred.”
“Better than an Argentinean steakhouse? A hot shabu-shabu place?” I ask.
“So much better,” she says. “He bought me chocolate, but he never took me to a chocolate tasting.”
That does not surprise me at all. But it still disgusts me. “He never deserved you,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure she knows that already.