“Am I supposed to jerk off with this tiny plastic doll arm or what?” Dax asks, giving me that stupid sexy grin as he scratches his beard with the doll hand.
Snatching it out of his hand with another laugh, I hug the plastic doll arm to my chest.
“If you don’t like the Emotional Support Limb, you don’t have to keep the Emotional Support Limb!”
I laugh even harder when he takes the fake baby hand away from me and starts rubbing the hard plastic up and down my cheek.
“I like it; don’t worry. And you like it too, don’t you? Such a soft, smooth little baby hand on your cheek.” Dax chuckles as I swat the thing away while still being held securely in one of his arms.
“It was a dumb thing I saw when I was running some errands today, and I thought you should have it,” I tell him, the laughter finally dying down between us when Dax slides the doll hand in his back pocket. “Just remember you have that Emotional Support Limb when I start sucking at being emotionally supportive.”
Dax’s face softens, and he cups my face in his free hand.
“You’re doing just fine.”
“I just want to make sure you know that I’m not going to be any good at this. The last time I was fully dedicated to something other than Claws and Effect was when I was a member of the Ricky Schroder Fan Club,” I admit.
“Sooo… last week?”
“Funny,” I scowl.
“I believe he goes by Rick Schroder now,” he informs me, dropping his hand from my face. “Wow, do you even read his newsletters?”
I’m still laughing at how ridiculous he is, when Dax leans forward and puts his mouth right against my ear.
“I really, really like you, Harley Blake,” he whispers.
My throat clogs with emotion when he pulls back and smiles at me, removing his arm from around my waist to bend his elbow for me to take.
Once I’ve closed and locked the front door and slipped my hand through the crook of Dax’s arm, he leads me down the stairs and over to his car. After we spend a few seconds arguing about how he doesn’t need to open car doors for me, because it’s just a waste of time when I’m perfectly capable of opening my own doors, I finally give in when he won’t stop muttering about how he’s supposed to do it.
Our drive to the restaurant is relaxed. We never run out of things to talk about, and it mostly feels like every other time I’ve been with him, aside from us being dressed up and Dax continuing to do things for me that he claims are “supposed to be done.”
“How does my car look? I was supposed to get it cleaned, I guess.”
“Here’s my phone. I made a playlist for this evening, like I’m supposed to.”
“Stop fighting me on opening doors and pulling out chairs, or I will hogtie you and throw you in the trunk. It’s supposed to happen.”
After listening to a lovely medley of ’80s rock ballads on the way to a nice Italian restaurant I’ve never been to and letting Dax open the damn doors and pull out my stupid chair, our drinks have been delivered, and now he’s acting weird again while we look over the menu. His foot is tapping nervously against the floor under the table, and he keeps eyeing me uncertainly over his menu.
“What is wrong with you?” I whisper, lowering my menu when I hear him mutter an “Oh, shit” when our waiter gets back to our table to take our orders. “Do you need me to rub your face with the baby hand?”
I laugh to myself when Dax leans across the small, two-person table toward me, and I do the same, trying not to get distracted when I can smell his yummy cologne and his mouth is close enough to kiss.
“I’m supposed to order for you, and I don’t think that’s going to end well for me.”
I pull my head back a little in confusion to watch him glance up at the waiter and give him a nervous smile.
“Just give me one second. Trying to decide if following the rules is worth getting an appendage slowly sawed off with a butter knife,” he tells the young, confused man holding a pad and a pen in his hand.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, wondering if he came in contact with some brownies on the way over here when I wasn’t looking.
“A gentleman should be polite and courteous on a date, while being firm and manly by listening to what his date would like to eat and then ordering it for her,” Dax informs me, holding his pointer finger up to the waiter while he grabs his water glass and chugs half of it before setting it back down on the table.
“Why are you talking like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like… you’re Google, and I just asked you how to go on a first date. In 1952.”
Dax quickly picks his menu back up and looks down at it.
“Chicken parm sounds good.”
A few more previously dead brain cells join the smart living one, and I tell the waiter to give us a couple minutes. The confused young man walks away, and I lean forward to rest my elbows on the table, take the menu out of Dax’s hands, and set it down on the table off to the side.
“Dax Trevino. Did you google how to go on a date?” I ask softly, never knowing before this moment that my heart could actually feel like it’s melting in my chest.
Dax sighs, leaning forward in his chair to cross his arms and rest them on the table with me until our faces are a few inches apart.
“You’re goddamn right I did.” He nods with conviction, all of the nervousness finally gone from his face now that the truth is out. “Harley, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here either. I’ve never dated anyone. I’ve never wanted to date anyone, or make them feel special or like a princess on a date. I know you’re not really the princess type, but I want to do this right, and I’m fifteen steps into Twenty-Five Ways to Date Like a Gentleman. I’ve had my car detailed, I’ve taken extra time to properly groom myself, I’m wearing an outfit that gives me confidence, I’m maintaining eye contact, and I’ve prepared a list of topics for us to discuss in case there’s an uncomfortable lull in dinner conversation.”
Dax reaches over, grabs my fingers, and tugs my hand to his mouth, kissing the top of it.
“Now, let me order dinner for you without you stabbing me, and then just sit there like a good girl and let the nice man I paid play the violin right next to our table and make it super awkward while we eat the main course.”
My eyes widen in horror, and Dax laughs, leaning forward and kissing the tip of my nose.
“I’m just kidding,” he reassures me, letting go of my hand to signal the waiter while I relax back into my chair. “He’s not coming out until dessert.”
“You keep staring at my tattoos.”
I take another bite of my strawberry cheesecake, not taking my eyes off Dax’s forearms while he brings his own fork up to his mouth and takes the last bite of his tiramisu.
“They’re hot. Of course I’m staring at them. You’re lucky we’re in public or I’d make you take your shirt off so I can look at the rest of them.”
Dax smiles, wiping his face off with his napkin, tossing it on his empty plate, and pushing everything to the side. Once I finish my cheesecake and our waiter comes back to clear off the table, Dax leans forward to cross his arms and rest them in the middle of the table.