I open the oven to peek at the roast. A mouthwatering smell wafts out, and I send up a silent prayer that Watson will be impressed with my culinary abilities. Hordes of hyperactive butterflies assault my insides as I close the oven and check the time again.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans and stride over to the table to obsessively straighten the place settings for the dozenth time. I’m sure it’s normal to be this nervous before a first date, not that I have any frame of reference. I’m not even sure I could pin down what my official first date with Val was. The transition from friends to more was so seamless, all that really happened was that we added kissing to our regular hangouts. Everything was so simple and relaxed. Maybe that should’ve been a clue all on its own. There’s something to be said about being comfortable around someone, but maybe a little bit of nerves means I’m truly feeling something. I’m excited and terrified all at once, and there’s something absolutely thrilling about that.
I run a hand over my smooth face. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for a date with a man. I’ve always heard women don’t like scratchy stubble, but what about other guys? Watson has a bit of stubble of his own, and it was anything but a turn off when we kissed in the alley.
My stomach flutters more violently at the reminder of that night. It seems so innocent compared to what I had to ask him to do the other night, but I’m kind of hoping we can pretend that never happened.
The chime of the doorbell makes my heart jolt, an eager smile spreading instantly over my lips. I smooth my hands over my shirt and anxiously reach for the brim of my baseball cap out of habit, only to find my head bare. Instead, I run my fingers through my hair, and take a deep breath before going to answer the door.
My breath catches as I pull the door open to find Watson standing on my doorstep holding a bouquet of wildflowers. He’s wearing his typical attire— a pair of black slacks, a button up shirt, and a colorful bowtie. Tonight, he also has a pair of suspenders on that match his bowtie.
A blush creeps into his cheeks and he grins, holding the flowers out to me. “Sorry if this is lame, but I thought flowers would be nice.”
It’s such a simple gesture, but something about it turns my insides to mush, a lump of emotion forming in my throat.
I take the flowers from him with one hand while reaching out with the other to snag the front of his shirt and dragging him toward me. He gasps as our lips meet and then makes a soft, happy sound against my mouth. He didn’t shave for our date. The coarse stubble on his face is like sandpaper against my skin, but I find myself loving the abrasive feeling. The roughness contrasts perfectly against the tenderness of the kiss.
When we pull apart, I can feel the dampness from his mouth clinging to my lips, I can taste the minty freshness of his breath, and still feel the sting of his facial hair against my skin.
“I love the flowers,” I say, my voice coming out deep and hoarse, my cock hard as steel from the brief contact, and my heart racing.
“Duly noted,” Watson says with a breathless laugh.
I step aside to let him in and wait while he removes his shoes before leading him down the hallway into the kitchen so I can put the flowers somewhere.
“It’s strange to see you without a hat on,” he says with amusement as he follows me through the house.
I run a nervous hand through my hair again. “I figured since this is our first date and all that I should try to look a little nicer than usual. I’m no expert, but I thought losing the ratty baseball cap was the first step.”
“You look very nice,” he assures me. “But I like the hat too.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think I have a vase,” I say as we enter the kitchen, setting the flowers on the counter and going through the motions of peeking into my cabinets, even though I know for a fact there has never been a vase in this house.
“Shoot, I didn’t think of that, sorry,” he apologizes. “What about a glass? Would that work?”
“Good thinking.” I grab a glass from the last cupboard and fill it halfway with water. “I think I’m supposed to cut the stems or something, right? I feel like I remember Val always doing that when she would get flowers.”
Watson shrugs, looking sheepish. “I didn’t realize bringing flowers would require so much prep and research,” he jokes.
“You and me both,” I agree. “They’re nice though, thank you.”
I snip off the ends of the stems just for good measure and stick them into the glass.
The oven beeps, and I shoo Watson over to the table so I can dish up our meal. He sits down, twisting in his chair to watch me with interest as I move around the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on everything and making sure it looks perfect on the plate.
“Fancy,” he says when I set his plate down in front of him.
“It’s not much.” I wave off the compliment and then eagerly watch as he tries his first bite.
“This is amazing,” he groans. “I’m glad I didn’t know you could cook sooner. It would’ve made resisting you that much harder.”
I chuckle. “Well, damn, now I’m regretting not bringing some samples of my culinary prowess to the bar with me that night we met.”
“I’ve never been very good at cooking. Don’t get me wrong, I know enough to get by with the basics, but nothing I’ve ever made has come out tasting like this.” He takes another bite, rolling his eyes back with theatrical pleasure and moaning.
“I learned right after Val and I divorced. I always liked cooking, but I never got too fancy with it. But then all the sudden I was living on my own and facing single parenthood, and I didn’t want to be that dad who couldn’t cook. I hated the idea of Livi dreading her time with me for any reason, even if it was something as silly as her mom having better food. So, I took a couple of night classes at the community college to brush up on some of the basics and watched a lot of the Food Network.”
“That’s sweet that you went to that much trouble to impress your daughter.” He smiles at me with a tender expression.
“Yeah, well, now all she wants to eat is takeout pizza,” I confess lightly, and we both laugh.
“Then she’s crazy, because this is incredible.”
“I’m sure Val has some magic way of getting her to eat whatever she cooks rather than always giving in to her pizza request,” I admit with a self-deprecating shrug. I’m sure my daughter is the last thing Watson is interested in discussing on our first date, but he doesn’t complain. He just reaches over and puts a hand on mine.
“You know that girl is crazy about you, right?” he says.
“What?” I cock my head curiously.
“She talks about you all the time. Last week, she was bragging to a couple of boys how her dad helped her build a clubhouse in her backyard over the summer. I’m guessing she just held the boards for you or something, but she was extremely proud of it.”
“Oh no, she put most of it together herself. I was just there to supervise,” I correct.
Watson’s eyebrows shoot up. “No way.”
“The kid is a savant with a set of tools,” I say proudly.
“I guess that explains why she rolled her eyes and told Tommy that building a birdhouse was child’s play,” he says.