“Shit! Hev, while I’m gone, can you …” I wave my hand at the clothes and look at her in blind panic. “What if I want to bring him back here later? OMG.” I grab a pile of shorts and unceremoniously dump them into the dresser, poking them and prodding them until I can get the drawer closed.
She makes a noise somewhere between a snort and a groan and shakes her head. “Oh no, you do not want to have sex with him tonight!”
“Uh, yeah, I do.” I’ve been fantasising about it for months now.
Heather adamantly shakes her head and picks up three of my dresses that she said were too “out there” for a first date. (I’m not sure what out there means—doesn’t everyone like Space Jam? And a Space Jam dress? Hello? Awesome!)
“No. No sex tonight. You want him to come back for more. Just give him a taste, chum the waters, bait the hook, and then—bam—reel him in,” she says, hanging my clothes.
“Fishing metaphors? Seriously, stop watching that Wicked Tuna programme!” I roll my eyes.
She laughs but doesn’t have time to answer because the doorbell rings.
My eyes widen when I notice he’s early. “Bugger.”
My body is suddenly a mess of nerves. My hands flutter to the hem of the dress, absentmindedly smoothing the skirt as I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart.
What was I thinking? I can’t do this! I can barely talk to the guy, let alone be alone on a date with him over dinner. This is sure to end in disaster.
“I want to see.” Heather darts from the room.
I suddenly panic and run after her, racing her to the door, scared of what she’ll say to him. She gets there first, but I press my hand against the door and shake my head. But she’s not going for the handle; she’s already squinting one eye at the peephole.
“Holy shit. He looks like Ryan Reynolds and Nick Jonas had a baby!”
“Right?” I chuckle and find my small black handbag, tucking my phone into it. “Christ, I’m nervous,” I whisper.
She smiles, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be fine. You look like a knockout. Just breathe, be calm, and don’t order the spaghetti.”
I frown. “Why can’t I order the spaghetti?”
She knows it’s my favourite, and Jared already suggested the Italian place not far from me when he messaged earlier.
One of her eyebrows rises, and her lips press into a thin line. I nod in understanding. No one looks sexy while eating spaghetti—well, maybe Shawn Mendes would, but that’s just because he’s an alien.
“No spaghetti—got it,” I agree.
I place my hand on the lock as she steps behind the door, out of sight.
“Oh, and, Amy, don’t mention anything about you crushing on him all this time. Just keep that to yourself. Pretend like you barely even remember him from the train. Better yet, don’t even mention seeing him on the train unless he brings it up. And definitely don’t tell him you fell in love with him while he was doing magic.” She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Heather does not agree with my opinion that dorks are sexy. “Be cool.”
Be cool. Don’t mention I’m crazy for him. No spaghetti. I got this.
I pull open the door, and when he smiles down at me, all sexy eyes and straight teeth, all thoughts of being cool are long gone.
“Fuck. Well, I just came,” I blurt, and then my eyes widen in horror at what I just said.
“That was easy,” he deadpans, cocking an eyebrow at me before we both burst out laughing.
Behind the door, I hear Heather groan and slap her palm against her forehead.
four
I thought he looked hot in a suit, but this … this is something else.
The casual look really works for him. Chunky black combat boots, loose and stylish; light-blue jeans covering long legs, just tight enough to make my thighs clench with a promise of what’s underneath; a plain, soft-looking white T-shirt stretched over a broad chest. This is the first time I’ve seen him without a suit jacket, and his toned, tanned arms draw my attention. I imagine them wrapping around me, the feel of his skin against mine. I long to reach out and touch him. His smile is killer and will keep any girl up at night. And his laugh … my God, I’m already done for the night, and we haven’t even left the doorstep.
He’s too hot to be standing in the dingy hallway with its peeling paint, questionable stain on the ceiling, and my worn welcome mat that Heather bought me as a housewarming gift that reads, Did you bring margaritas? He’s in direct contrast with his surroundings. He’s all beautiful and clean, and the communal stairwell that leads to my first-floor flat is … anything but.
I wince and shake my head at myself. “What I meant to say was, hi.”
One side of his mouth quirks up. “Hi.”
As he holds out a bunch of pale pink roses, my insides thrum with pleasure.
“Got you these. They reminded me of you.” His eyes flick to my hair and back down to my face.
I bite my bottom lip as I take them. “Thank you. They’re lovely.”
“You look amazing,” he says.
When I look up from the flowers, I catch him in mid-examination, his eyes doing a slow sweep of my body, his jaw flexing with tension.
I hide my satisfied grin by burying my face in the flowers, inhaling their sweet perfume. “As do you, obviously. But I’m sure you got that from my earlier comment.” I nod awkwardly and shift on my feet, looking anywhere but at him.
He laughs again, that deep, throaty chuckle that makes the hair on my arms stand up. Thankfully, he chooses not to embarrass me further. “Are you ready to go? I’m a little early. I can wait …” He trails off, but I shake my head.
“I’m ready. Let me just put these inside.” I step back, the door bumping me as I shoulder it open and deliberately close it a little behind me, so he doesn’t follow me in.
Heather rolls her eyes. “That was not being cool.”
“Tell me about it!” I stage-whisper, handing her the flowers. “Vase in the kitchen. Thanks. Love you. I’ll call you later … unless I’m too busy.” I suggestively waggle my eyebrows.
She adamantly shakes her head. “No sex. Bait the hook, and keep him coming back.”
I sigh in defeat but know she’s right. If I have sex with him tonight, I’ll likely never see him again. Well, until the next time on the train, and then that’ll be uber awkward.
Picking up my handbag, I blow her a kiss. “Wish me luck.”
She grins and crosses the fingers on her free hand, winking at me.
Jared is casually leaning against the wall outside my flat, one ankle crossed over the other, his long fingers tangled with each other. My eyes drink him in again—the flat stomach, the way the T-shirt fits across his pecs and falls looser to his waist. The material of it looks so soft that my fingers ache to reach out and touch it, to fist it up and yank his body closer to mine. I gulp, trying to douse my lust but it’s hard, oh-so hard.
He straightens as I step out and moves to my side as we both head down the flight of stairs to the front door of my apartment block.
“Do you like Italian? You didn’t say no, so I’m assuming you do, but we can go somewhere else if you prefer?” he asks as he leads me over to a sleek, expensive-looking black sports car.