I hadn’t talked to Emma since Monday when we made our original plans to confirm we were still on for tonight, but I wasn’t going to let a two hundred pound amoeba get in the way of a first date with Emma Scarlett. He might have been under the impression that his macho man crap would be enough of a deterrent to keep me away from Emma, and maybe it would have for some guys. But I’d never fallen into the category of some guys.
I rolled up to the curb outside her dorm ten minutes early, having no problem with parking in the fire lane. If a man trying to convince the woman he was falling for to join the free fall wasn’t considered an emergency, I didn’t know what was.
I grabbed the bouquet and the shiny silver box and walked-slash-jogged up the walkway to her dorm. My stomach felt like a family of angry chimpanzees were tearing it apart from the inside out. My palms were wet, long surpassing the clammy stage. I was jittery, anxious, expectant, and about ready to burst from the cacophony of emotions eating me from the inside out. Basically, I felt like a virgin on prom night. Walking down the hotel hall.
This was crazy. This girl, in barely one week’s time, had managed to take the smooth out of my game, the gusto out of my sail, the confidence out of my stride. She’d rendered my bravado useless at exactly the time I needed it. The one time for decades past that I’d needed to show up with every last soldier in my firing squad, I’d shown up to the front lines with a pubescent drummer boy.
Attempting to put a lid on the negative self talk, I reached for the door handle, ready to launch myself inside with all the smooth, suffocating swagger of which I knew I was capable. My fingers hadn’t even wrapped around the handle when the door thrust open, slowing only after it collided with my face. I was pretty sure the sound I emitted sounded anything but smooth. Or manly.
“Patrick?” a familiar, sweetest sound I’d ever heard after being slammed in the face, voice shrieked. “Oh my goodness gracious. Are you all right?” She squeezed up against me, running her hands over my face, knowing something should be broken or gushing. Other than my ego, everything was just as intact as it had been two seconds ago.
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” I reassured her, taking a step back and smiling with exaggeration so she could see we didn’t need to spend our first date in the waiting room of minor emergency. “However, if you promise to run your hands all over me like a nun who’s fallen off the wagon every time I get hurt, I’ll be faceplanting into every door I pass.”
Her lines of concern drew tighter into an expression of amused accusation. A girl had never looked so beautiful while giving me a pointed look. And pointed, next to swooning, was the majority of looks the female masses sent my way.
“You’re early,” she said at last.
I could have lied as to why, but I didn’t. “I couldn’t wait,” I answered, shrugging.
“And unless you were running away from Ty, you’re early too.”
Shrugging, she mimicked my expression. “I couldn’t wait.”
Yeah, I’m pretty sure that bang I just heard was my heart hitting the floor. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to show. Especially since the warmest interaction I had with you this week was the cold shoulder,” I said in a teasing tone, although I wasn’t really.
Ty made it to class Wednesday and Friday and, with his presence, caused Emma’s absence. She was there physically, but not in spirit, I guess you could say. She hadn’t said a word to me, nor replied to any of my best attempts at making conversation. In fact, she hadn’t even acknowledged me. It was a dark form of torture.
I wanted to ask her if this shell of Emma had been created because of something I’d done or because of something Ty had done, but since she wouldn’t even spare a sideways glance my way, I lulled myself to sleep analyzing the hell out of that puzzle.
But here she was, smiling at me like I was one of her favorite people on the planet.
“Yeah, about that,” she said, her eyes drifting to the side. “I’m sorry I ignored you all week. It’s not that I wanted to, but Ty—” she caught herself, but I didn’t need her to elaborate. The question mark that was Ty was a one word answer. “It’s just that . . . it’s, it’s . . . it’s complicated,” she finished, looking like she’d just had a molar removed without Novacain.
“Really?” I said with sarcasm, feeling bad for her. Emma didn’t strike me as the girl to stutter over her words—whatever Ty had said, bribed, or threatened her with must have been convincing. “Uncomplicate it then,” I said, once her eyes drifted back to mine and I was able to talk. The force of tongue-tying was strong with this one.
She laughed. “Now why didn’t I think of that? Because uncomplicating the complicated is the easiest thing in the world.”
Leaning in, I said, “Want some advice as to where you should start with your uncomplicating endeavor?”
“Why not?” she said through a sigh.
I leaned in closer still, so close I could feel the beat pulsing in her neck. “It’s exceedingly uncomplicated over here. So why don’t you dump the baggage and come fly the friendly, uncomplicated skies?”
Leaning back from me, her eyebrows flew the friendly skies. “It’s anything but uncomplicated there,” she said, doing a full body scan as her face fell. “And I’m just now realizing how uncomplicated you’re making this for me.” Her hands pointed at me, flapping around in accusation. “Not only am I underdressed, I’m embarrassingly underdressed,” she said, looking down at her jeans and sweater combo like it had betrayed her.
“Ah-hah,” I said, balancing the box in one hand as I motioned with my head she should open it. “I’m so five steps ahead of you.”
Eyeing me like she knew I was up to trouble, she slid the lid off.
“I didn’t take you for the roses and flashy red dress kind of girl,” I said, handing her the so-large-it-was-almost-obscene bouquet of orchids.
She gave me a look while she fingered the watery silk gown in the box.
I chuckled, sending a silent thanks to Cora for being such a fashion goddess. A dress this smokin’ should be illegal in all fifty states. “But this is my date, and I’m a rubber necking red dress kind of guy.”
Her eyes rolled, but it was softened by a smile as she clutched the box against her chest. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be right back. Adorned in a dress that could only be conceived, designed, and selected by a man.”
“Guilty on all counts,” I said, feeling my chest pulling tight as she turned to head back into the building, away from me, like she was taking a vital organ with her.
“Oh, and thanks for the flowers,” she said, stopping abruptly like she’d forgotten something important. “I’ve never had a guy bring me flowers before.” She glanced down at the bouquet spilling out of her arms and a smile that was too personal to be interpreted spread.
“You’re kidding me, right?” I said, not able to comprehend that Ty was an even bigger loser than I’d thought.
She shook her head. “Nope, you’re the first. Besides, they’re ridiculously overpriced, an awful cliché, and their short lifespan is cut in half whenever they wind up in my care.”
“Hold up,” I cut her off, raising my hands. “I’m familiar with this act. Seen it a billion times, delivered a million different ways. You’re playing the part of the girl who’s saying only what she thinks we guys want to hear. Am I right?” I asked needlessly. They didn’t call me the female BS detector for nothing.
Her inability to make eye contact confirmed my assertion. “That’s what I thought. Come on, you girls were made to love flowers. You were made to sigh when your man arrives with them in hand, you were made to fret over arranging them, you were made to smell them every time you walk by them, and you were made to turn them upside down and dry them when they wilt.” I was getting a little too touchy-feely for my own good, so I did something out of character and clamped my mouth shut.
“Two words,” she said, her eyes lighter than normal. “Soap. Box.” It was followed with a yawn.
Emma Scarlett could throw it back at me as fast as I could toss it. Yes, that was me just falling harder.
“Hey, I’m just an honest guy. Brutally honest,” I said, because I couldn’t think of anything more severe than brutal. “You can get a reference from any one of my three sisters-in-law if you don’t believe me.” I suddenly realized that this was the first time I’d referenced, or even thought about, Bryn in days. And it was only in a round about, inclusive, sister-in-law kind of way. The Bryn bus was finally leaving the station. Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles. “I’m not going to tell you what I think you want to hear, so please don’t do that to me. Sound simple enough?”
She looked a little shell-shocked from my additions to my soap box. “Sounds anything but simple,” she answered, staring at me like she didn’t know what to do or say to me. This was a predicament I was happy to help her with.
“I’m wrong then,” I said, reaching for the bouquet. “I’ll just take these filthy things off your hands and deposit them into the nearest trashcan.”
I’d never seen a girl grip flowers like she had a ninja hold on them, but that was what Emma did. “Mine,” she said, spinning away from me and charging through the door.
I smiled from her excitement over a simple bouquet of flowers. If she reacted this way to flowers, she was going to bust something when she experienced what I had planned for the night.
“You know, I really do love flowers,” she announced, tilting her head back my way as she stopped mid-stride. “I was always secretly jealous of those girls who would get flowers delivered to them in the middle of class. There’s something incredibly sexy about a man who doesn’t give a flying fart what anyone thinks about his romantic notions.”
I choked back the laughter right before it burst. “Mental note posted,” I said, glad I’d put the local florist on speed dial earlier today. Better make it a favorite contact too.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, jogging down the hallway, the orchids and her hair bouncing to the beat of her stride.
And I was mesmerized. Completely stupefied until she disappeared around the corner. I didn’t need an official diagnosis to know I was crossing into the land of a heartbreak that was unrecoverable.
Shaking my head, I turned around to find Mr. D-bag of the Decade all but lunging up the walkway at me.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up on a fake date with my girlfriend with flowers that cost more than the first bill you’ll get from the emergency room after I teach your disrespecting ass a lesson.” Ty’s face was bursting with angry veins, like he was ready to erupt any second.
I wasn’t worried that I’d have any problems taking him, but I didn’t want to wrinkle my tux and, in my experience, brawling with a no brains and some brawn grizzly bear like Ty was more wrinkle inducing than I cared to entertain tonight.
“Whoa there, big guy,” I said calmly, hinting with my hands he should take it down a notch or twelve. “Put the anger monkeys back in their cage and give them a tranquilizer while you’re at it.”
His nostrils started flaring. Not in the way you mean to when you show off to your friends, but in the anger spilling over way.
“Listen, I just thought since I was her boyfriend for the quarter and you’re her boyfriend for real,” I pricked my muscles to life, realizing this next comment was going to earn me a swing, “that one of us should get her flowers.”
I was right. The swing came at me fast and like he didn’t care if he nailed me so hard he went to prison for manslaughter. However, I had speed, countless battles fought and won to anticipate every move my enemy was about to make, decades of experience as a legendary (and no, I don’t mind saying so) strength instructor, and this one other little thing—Immortality.
His fist caught nothing but air as I ducked. The ungrounded power sent him toppling forward—as expected, of course—and I was there waiting for him. I rose from my crouched position just as he was falling over me so he could experience this virtue I had very little knowledge of—humility—a bit more extensively.
My shoulder ramming into his gut sent him somersaulting over me, falling to the ground with such force it shook the proverbial rafters. You would have thought I’d just launched a steel ox like Nathanial over my back instead of some adrenaline and testosterone driven Mortal.
“That’s your freebie,” I said, my voice just as calm as it had been pre-punch. “You come at me a second time, it’s open season on hot-headed assholes.” I glared down at him, wanting to squash him out like a smoldering cigarette. And I could have done it.
What Emma saw in this pond feeder was beyond me, but the only thing that kept me from making sure he spent the rest of his days sipping his meals from a straw was her. Whatever it was, she was with him. She wanted him.
It made me sick acknowledging it, but it made me even sicker to think about the pain I’d cause her if I did what instinct instructed me to do with Ty. I forced myself to take a step back and then one more just to be safe.
“You catch my drift, cowboy?” I asked, staring unblinkingly at him. I wanted him to catch the message, along with the threat, beyond a shadow of a doubt. “I won’t start it with you, but I will happily end it with you if you take another cheap shot at me.”
“That’s awfully tough talk for some metro in a pretty, shiny suit,” Ty said, his jaw clenching around the words. He lifted himself from the ground, holding my stare the entire way up. “And here’s a little quid pro quo for you. Keep your eyes and hands off my girl. You got that? Because if I even sense your thoughts turning in a heated direction, I won’t hesitate to show you the consequences of your actions.” His mouth twisted up, overdone so it was more comical than it was threatening.
I had to work really hard on not smiling so as not to beg another raw swing to the surface from him. “No offense to your superior school yard fighting tactics,”—I made a purposeful look down his body—“but I think I can take you. Actually, correction,” I said, raising my index finger, “I know I can obliterate you.”
This time when his smile formed, he got it in just the right spot to depict chilling. So much so it made my imaginary hackles stand on end. “That may be, but there are more ways than smashing your face in that I can think of to get a message across.”
“And those ways are?” I asked, crossing my arms, hoping Emma wouldn’t choose this moment to charge through the doors. I didn’t want her anywhere near this monster and his chilling to the core expressions or his vague threats.
“To be revealed,” Ty said, his eyebrows wagging as he turned and began lumbering into the night. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, pretty boy. You try to take my girl, I’ll get you where it hurts.” He laughed to himself, the kind that wasn’t meant to be heard by average ears, but since mine weren’t, I heard every last note of his private laugh.
“Cryptic much?” I said under my breath, wondering if his threat was all bluff or if Ty really had an idea of what could hurt me. One thing I did know was that I didn’t want to find out, but I also knew given our situation, I’d probably be finding out just how proficient a bluffer he was sooner rather than later.
I didn’t even have one hot minute before the door opened and a flash of red confirmed who was approaching. I forced myself to calm down and push the Ty incident aside. I wouldn’t let him ruin another second of this night.
Turning towards the red flashing my way, my mouth opened to say something or drop to the concrete—I wasn’t sure—but it was the kind of predicament I wouldn’t mind finding myself in mouth deep again. Soon.
“Speechless. That’s a first,” Emma said, her hands fretting over the corset boning of the gown like she could make it disappear if she rubbed it hard enough. “However, I’m not certain if that’s speechless in a good way”—her fingers pulled next at the neckline, but neck-line was a stretch. The top of the dress covered nowhere near her neck—“or in a bad way.” She snuck a glance my way, no doubt as stupefied by my silence as I was. “Care to elaborate, or is this going to be one of those silent dates?”
I could have gawked at all the wrong places (or right places if you’re a being of the XY chromosome) or stared at the aforementioned areas long enough to get slapped, but the moment my eyes connected with hers, there was nowhere else I wanted to look. And I’m saying that with a woman who has the body of a 1940’s Hollywood starlet in front of me. Curves—God I missed a woman’s body. I curse the day starvation became a commonly accepted diet for women.
Shaking my head and giving each of my cheeks a slap, I answered, “That was speechless in a hot-damn-woman-there-are-hearts-breaking-around-the-world-tonight good kind of way.”
She laughed, doing a quick spin. “You have such a way with words, fake boyfriend.”
“Fake boyfriend?” I repeated, twirling my finger for an encore twirl. As expected, she didn’t cooperate.
“You’re not exactly my real boyfriend, but you’re not an ex-boyfriend either, so what else is there? Forced boyfriend, maybe. Do you like that better?” From the tilt of her brows, I knew she wasn’t expecting me to answer.
“Fake has such a negative connotation, though. And as far as this project entails, we’re to act as real as it gets.”
Her mouth opened, her eyes already objecting, when I stuck my arm out for her. “So, real girlfriend, are you ready to get this date on the road?”
Anticipating another objection was at the ready, I said, “I’ve got a night planned that I can guarantee you’ll be gushing to your girlfriends about on Monday.”
“Would it matter if I answered ‘no’?” she asked, flicking an eyebrow.
“Of course not.” I smirked, wagging the arm she’d left hanging.
She did the girl look of which I’d seen my fair share. The what am I going to do with you half eye roll, full head shake, look. This was the first time I’d seen that look without getting nauseated.
She sighed as she wrapped her elbow around my arm. I stood measurably taller. “We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” she breathed, running her eyes down her five figure gown before scanning my one figure less tux.
That was a first, too. Not buying a woman a gown. I’d bought hundreds, thousands probably. The first was caring so much about someone that nothing but the best would do, nothing substandard, mediocre, or even expensive would work. This little thing called selflessness was trying to crawl its way into my heart.
“Stay close, Dorothy,” I said, leading her down the walkway. I felt like the night was ours, the world was ours. “My land of Oz is as paved with landmines as it is with yellow bricks.”
“Don’t let my girl next door innocence fool you,” she said, glancing over at me. “I love a good adrenaline stimulating adventure as much as the next daredevil.”
“Would it be premature if I proposed right this minute?” I asked, only half joking. I understood it now, or at least I was understanding it. When you met the one, you knew. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most certain thing you’d ever known, the easiest, least scary decision you’d ever make. When you met the one, what was the purpose of ticking off months and years with anything less than a band circling a certain finger on a certain hand?
She laughed, but it was a nervous one. “Maybe just a tad premature,” she said, clearing her throat. “You should probably at least wait until the end of the date.”
“Patience, real girlfriend,” I warned, “is not one of my few virtues, so no promises.”
Another laugh. “Fair enough.”
I’d left the car idling along the front curb. Probably not the genius IQ choice given one of only thirty ever made vehicles would be hard to replace, but I loved making an entrance, and the only thing sexier on the road than the car growling in front of us would be Emma and me speeding down the highway.
“If I was a total cheese-dick, I’d say something like your chariot awaits,” I said, motioning at the Zeus of RPM’s, “but since dick of cheese I am not, how about if I keep it sweet and simple and just open the door for you?” I swept the door open, beckoning her in.
“What in all-things-excessive-and-could-feed-a-third-world-country-for-a-month is this?” she asked, whipping to a stop and surveying the car like it was guilty of a capital crime.
I shrugged at the special occasion car I coveted. “It’s a Maserati,” I answered, keeping it simple. Girls, other than my sister-in-law, didn’t care about the nitty-gritty details in the car world.
“A Maser-what-i?” she said, curling her nose at it.
I would have felt insulted for the car if it was anyone but Emma roasting it. “It’s a car. A mode of transportation,” I said, my over-simplification only expunging a crossing of the arms from her. “Will you be getting in it any time soon?” I asked when she took a step back.
“If you’re looking for a means of transportation,” she threw back at me, “I’ve got this really awesome late 80’s Honda Accord with about 500,000 miles on it we could use”—I had to keep my expression from grimacing—“or this other wonderful thing known as public transportation we could make savvy use of too.”
I moved my mouth, popping my jaw to release tension. This girl was driving me crazy. In every sense of the word.
“What’s your price?” I asked after a couple satisfactory snaps and pops.
“Excuse me?” she said, taking a step forward. Confrontational as it was, at least it was a start in the right direction.
“Your price,” I repeated. “For getting in the bloody car so we can get on with our date. Name your price.”
Her eyes drilled through mine, confirming my seriousness. Silence and a stare was the only thing we shared for almost a full minute—every bit as awkward as you’d think it would be when a gorgeous woman was staring you down while passers-by looked on like we were the latest and greatest reality show to hit the airwaves.
Finally, a smile curled up the corners of her mouth. “If you want me to get in that hunk of junk”—I winced like a bandaid had just been ripped off one of the more tender areas of my body—“I want you to donate as much money as that thing cost to some charity—any charity—by the end of the week,” she finished, smirking at me like she had me and was only waiting for me to pick my poison.
And if forced to make the choice, I didn’t know which one I’d rather drink: a rice rocket on its last leg created in the worst decade for cars ever or sitting sandwiched between the snot and stench lurking in a public bus.
Little did she know, money I had. More than I needed, more than I wanted, more than I knew what to do with, but had it I did and agreeing to donate a million of it to charity was an easier decision than chocolate or vanilla at the ice cream shop.
“Done,” I said, reaching for her hand. “Can we get on with it now?”
“You’re bluffing,” she accused, although she let me guide her into the car.
“I never bluff when it comes to money,” I said, tucking the train of her gown in when she sat down. “And did you miss the conversation we just had a few minutes ago about honesty?” I shut the door after her, feeling a small victory that I’d succeeded in getting her in the car.
As soon as I slid into my seat, she was already mid-way into her sentence. “You’re really going to donate one million dollars this week?” she said, the tone of someone who wasn’t sure if they were dealing with someone who was a royal nutter or a habitual liar.
I sighed, punching the Maserati into gear. I’d feel better once we were in motion and the chances of her throwing herself out of the car if I said the wrong thing were diminished by cruising at some impressive MPHs. “Would you be satisfied if I show you the check first?”
She paused, something she seemed to do as infrequently as I did. It was apparent neither of us was like saint William who thought everything out before he said it. Something about wanting to avoid verbal diarrhea at all costs, he’d attributed it to. “That’s all right. If you say you’re going to do it, I believe you,” she said, her words deliberate. “I trust you.”
Three words. Three syllables. Insignificant in the scheme of the billions we hear during our lifetime, but to date, the most significant words I’d heard. They hit me with the weight of a dozen different responses. I wanted to grip her to me and never let go, I wanted to slam the brakes and kiss her until the windows were coated in steam an inch thick, I wanted to wrap her in a bubble of protection and never let anything bad happen to her, I wanted to make her happy in every way a man could.
Trust was a simple thing, or at least so it seemed at face value, but the thing about living two centuries of existence is that one learns that trust is rarer than love. True love, even. I couldn’t count the number of couples, families, and friends that professed undying love to one another, only to find their unions fractured when this little underestimated thing known as trust was broken. You fell in love, but you earned trust, and for whatever reason, Emma trusted me.
I don’t think I would have been more moved if she’d just said she loved me.
And without realizing I was saying it, I responded, “I trust you, Emma.”
So much for playing it cool, keeping my cards to myself . . . I’d found myself sickeningly sweet profession deep in a Hallmark card.
“Good,” she said, running her fingers over the dash. “I can always use a good friend.”
I knew friend was generally the label of death for any man hoping to work his way into a woman’s heart, but I’d never let the odds stop me before. Friend was better than acquaintance, classmate, or enemy. Friend could work itself into something else, especially with me at the helm steering our friendship boat in the right direction.
“So, friend,” I began, letting the Maserati loose once we hit the freeway on-ramp. “Just so I know for future reference—are you going to be so difficult about everything?”
I could feel her grin light up the car. “I could ask you the same question.”
“Yes, you could,” I said, smiling the real kind I so rarely did. My smiles were generally more constructed depending on the situation and the outcome I wanted to elicit. “And the answer would be yes.”
She laughed as I threaded the car through an endless line of red tail lights. “Well aren’t we just two peas in a pod?”
Just as I was about to say something profoundly witty, my phone went off. “Sorry about that,” I said, freeing it from my pocket. “I forgot to silence it.”
Taking a glance at the screen, I saw who was responsible for the interruption. If it wasn’t already a truism that little brothers are annoying, this confirmed it. Joseph knew I was on a date, on a date where I actually dug the girl and didn’t want an interruption, and the little goober probably thought it would be great fun to pepper me with prank calls all night. I’d never punched ignore faster.
“You were saying?” I said, turning the phone off so I wouldn’t be distracted by the dozen and a half more calls that were surely coming. “Something about us getting all snug and cozy inside a pod?”
“You’re as optimistic as you are difficult,” she said, staring out the windshield like I wasn’t driving like it was the last lap of the Indy 500 and I was in second place.
“You’re just handing out the compliments tonight, aren’t you?” I replied, missing the bumper of some mini hybrid when it decided to hit its brakes when it saw me coming.
“Okay, so give me the sixty second Emma Scarlett spiel,” I said suddenly because, while I felt I knew her on a hey-you-wanna-be-my-soulmate level, I had very little knowledge of the everyday details that made her who she was.
“Sixty second spiel?” she repeated like it was a foreign concept. “I’m not familiar with that lingo. Mind giving me an example?”
Sure, I’d play. I knew this was just her way of deciding how much she’d divulge based on how much I did. Women were cunning creatures; that’s part of the reason I was enamored with them.
“You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my shoulder.
I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-in-law Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes.
“Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.”
Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?”
This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there.
“Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.”
Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly.
“Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”
I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience.
“This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.”
I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least.
“Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?”
She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.”
I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.”
She landed a soft punch in my arm.
“And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like lunatics to impress you. We drive like this because we like it.” I shifted down, punching the gas at the same time. “Correction,” I said, our heads slamming the headrests. “We love it.”
“Great,” she said through her teeth, her hands grasping whatever she could.
I slowed instantly. I might have loved driving fast, but I wanted her to feel safe more. I wasn’t worried about wrapping us around a cement barricade—driving came as naturally as flirting to me—but she didn’t know that.
“So where are you taking me?” she asked, her fingers loosening their grips as she relaxed in her seat.
I made note of the highest speed I could attain and still keep her comfortable. I was happy to see it was just north of the triple digits.
“Are you putting me on a private jet and flying me to the opera?” she asked out of nowhere.
Private jet wasn’t that far from the truth, but the opera was my kryptonite. At least, one of the many.
“No.” I drew out my answer. “What made you guess that?”
“The red dress, you in a tux, the fancy car,” she listed off like I was supposed to be catching on to something. “I’m having a very Pretty Woman moment right now.”
Ahhhh, now I got it. “How about this? I’ll promise you a private jet to a private opera—I’ll even buy some diamonds for you and clamp the box closed on your hand when you reach for them—if . . .” I said with a tone of expectation, “you promise to wear those shiny, black, over-the-knee stiletto boots.”
That earned me another punch, although this one was a little harder and more deserved in my opinion.
“I might not bruise as easily as you, but I’m going to be sporting a purple right arm if you keep up at that rate tonight, Rocky Balboa,” I lied, rubbing my arm.
“What? With that little love-tap?” she said with fake innocence. “And besides, you deserved it.”
“You’re going to tell me diamonds, gowns, and Learjets aren’t worth wearing some trashy boots for a few hours?” I asked, whipping across three lanes to hit the off ramp.
“It wasn’t what you suggested, it was how you suggested it,” she said, turning in her seat towards me.
“Explanation, si vous plait,” I said, turning in my seat as much as I could towards her.
She huffed, like she didn’t want to explain, but I knew her enough to know she would. “You know,” she said, “you got that dreamy, far-off look on your face when you said it. Like you were picturing me naked in them, licking a lollipop or something.”
I choked . . . on nothing. The impact of what she’d said hit me that hard. Partly because that’s not what I’d been picturing at all, but mainly because that’s right where my mind went. And I liked it. Too much.
“That’s ridiculous. You were eating a bag of pork rinds and you had on a jumpsuit,” I said, keeping a level voice.
“A skimpy jumpsuit then,” she said under her breath, “and I was probably eating those pork rinds all sexy-like.”
“You know me too well, Miss Scarlett.” I laughed, taking a hard left into the parking lot.
“The beach?” she asked, surveying the area. “You took me to the beach dressed in a formal gown?”
I had to work hard to keep a straight face. “You don’t like the beach?” I asked. “Scared of getting a little sand in your shoes?”
“No,” she answered with irritation. “I love the beach. I’ve just never experienced it in formal wear before.”
“Well you’ve never lived then,” I said, swinging my door open and hurrying around the front of the car so I could get her door before she did that twenty-first century thing girls did now of opening the door themselves. Sometimes, progress wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I got there just in time. Opening the door, I lowered my hand to meet hers. “But we’ll save that for another time. Tonight we’ll be merely taking in the view of the beach from . . .”—my eyes pointed down the dock where a gleaming yacht towered a good ten feet higher and twenty feet longer than the rest of the shabby-by-comparison yachts around. It was the kind of boat that might make someone think to themselves, do you think he’s compensating for something?
Good thing for me I knew I was compensating for nothing. Especially that.
Emma’s mouth dropped so violently it was audible. “Is that cruise ship yours?”
I shut the door, grabbed her hand, and tugged her along in her stunned state. I didn’t want to deal with another half hour debate over getting on the ship like I’d had to with her getting in the car.
“Given the way you reacted to the car,” I said, leading her down the dock. “I’d like to plead the fifth on the boat,” I understated. “Let’s leave it at that and just enjoy ourselves. Sound manageable?”
“Something tells me you’d throw me over your shoulder and tie me to a gold plated chair aboard that thing if I said no,” she said, giving in to my pulling encouragement.
“Gold plated?” I huffed, feigning insult. “That’s just tacky.” Grinning over at her, I added, “I prefer platinum.”
She rolled her eyes all the way towards the boat, where one of the handful of stewards was waiting with an outstretched hand to guide us aboard.
“How’s it hanging, Jacque?” I greeted, shaking his hand before boarding. But not before I tossed Emma in my arms.
Before she could protest like I knew she would, I hopped aboard and set her back down.
Grinning like the devil, I asked, “You were about to say?”
She made an event of checking and adjusting her gown to make sure everything was still covered and in its proper place before answering. “You know exactly what I was about to say. I’m not about to verbalize it as the only thing that will accomplish is an elevation of your smugness levels.”
I tucked my hands in my pockets. “This is the most memorable date I’ve ever been on,” I admitted, checking my watch. “And we’re only thirty minutes in,” I said, offering her my arm.
“Oh, and by the way, when the nice man welcoming us aboard addressed you by your last name, your pleading the fifth as to boat ownership was useless.” Shouldering me, she reached for my arm. “Nice boat.”
I wrenched my face into confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so maybe we should stop talking and move onto . . .”—I winked, making her eyes widen—“dinner,” I said, motioning behind her.
She spun around, but not before I detected the color bleeding through her cheeks. “Whoa,” she whispered to herself. And whoa it was, as I’d intended.
I knew it was a generally agreed upon adage that less is more, but it was one I’d vehemently been against my entire life. More was more as far as I was concerned, and in holding to this excessive tradition, the dining area prepared before us fit the bill.
Jewel toned oversized pillows, Moroccan lamps flickering with sandalwood scented candles, and a canopy of turquoise silk with a jasmine garland blew in the breeze, transporting us into another time, another world. A world where there was no one but Emma and me, and when she looked over at me, hard and purposeful, I knew she felt the same thing.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, moving towards our little piece of Morocco.
“Yes it is,” I said, staring at her as she fingered the silk rippling off the canopy.
When she looked back at me, her face was glowing, like she was two minutes into finding Neverland. “Thank you,” she said, her face happy in a way I hadn’t seen it before. Happy like she had no bad memories to taint it.
“You’re welcome,” I said, fighting off the urge to shrug it off like it was no big deal. Because it was a big deal. I’d lost count decades ago, this could have been my ten-thousandth date, but this was my first date with someone I cared about. Truly cared about.
Trailing her fingers along the silk, she said, “What? No witty comeback? No word play in return?” she asked, giving me a knowing look.
“Nah,” I said. “I figured you’re properly aware of how incredibly funny and downright comedic I am by now. It’s time to get to the meat and potatoes of our relationship.”
Her face dropped a little. “Meaning?”
“It’s question and answer time, baby, and since this is my date,”—I wagged my eyebrows at her—“I get to be the questioner.”
The skin between her eyebrows creased. “Sounds painful. Excruciating even.”
“Nah,” I replied, chancing a hand on the curve of her back before weaving us under the canopy. “I’ll go easy on you.”
She took my arm as she sank into one of the oversized pillows surrounding the table. “That would be reassuring if your ‘easy’ was like everyone else’s ‘easy,’” she said, a grin flickering over her mouth.
“Meaning?” I asked, lounging into the pillow across from her and moving the centerpiece to the side. Nothing was going to impair my view of her tonight.
Her eyebrows twitched upwards. “Your easy is everyone’s hard. It’s like you live your life looking for the next great challenge. The next Everest to scale. The next city to conquer,” she said, staring at me like she’d got me all figured out. “What people look at and say ‘impossible’, you say ‘bring it on.’”
Just as her stare was about to bury me where I sat, her shoulders lifted in time to the corners of her mouth. “Your easy is my hard.”
“That was deep,” I replied in my lightest tone, though I was still reeling from her words. “And scary accurate, so the first question I was going to ask you tonight will have to be superseded by this,”—I raised my index finger—“do you come from a long line of psychics? Mind readers perhaps? Voo-doo mamas?”
She put on a face that I suppose she meant to be cryptically mysterious, although all it did was make me grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I leaned forward. “I’d like to know everything there is to know about you,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the thoughts running in the back of my mind. “Including the first and last name of the first boy you kissed.”
Her head tilted to the side. “Question number one?” she asked. “Of all the questions in the universe to ask, you want to know who was the first boy I kissed?”
“You better believe I do,” I answered immediately.
She took a sip of water before answering, “Brent Cooper. Fifth grade, at the water fountain outside of Principal McKay’s office.”
I narrowed my eyes in jest. “Lucky bastard.”
“Maybe for all of two seconds until Dallas shoved through Principal Mckay’s door after his every-other-day reprimanding and busted the water fountain after busting Brent’s face through it.” She laughed, shaking her head. “It was a two visit day to the principal’s office that day for Dallas, and Brent never so much as looked at me again.”
“Yeah, your brothers are protective of you,” I said. “I picked up on that.”
She nodded. “Yeah, overprotective is probably the most accurate description, but they mean well. It’s like they made some sacred vow that they’d never let another man hurt me the way our dad did when he left us.”
I almost replied back with a smart ass comment about Ty making it past their radar, but her eyes shifted to the side, focusing on nothing in particular. Like she was hoping the movement would keep whatever tears that might be forming inside.
My hand found its way to hers, my fingers twining between hers before my mind caught up. But she wasn’t pulling away. Her fingers curled around mine like I was the only thing holding her above water.
“I’m sorry your dad left you,” I said, wishing I could siphon away the pain coursing through her right now. “If I had a daughter like you, I’d need a damn good reason to leave. And I’d be thinking of you every second of every day if I did.” The words fell out of my mouth before I knew they were there.
One of the tears she was trying so hard to keep contained fell. Damn my must-say-the-first-thing-that-comes-to-mind straight to hell.
“Em, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying,” I said, tightening my grip on her hand. “Just pay no attention to the idiot sitting across from you.”
“It’s fine,” she replied, and thankfully I repressed replying with whenever you girls say “it’s fine,” it’s anything but fine. “You’re a good man, and that’s what a good man would think,” she said, her eyes glassed over, somewhere else, before she whispered, “but my dad wasn’t a good man.”
Silence was my reply. My only reply. Nothing I could say or do could counter, cancel out, or comfort that bombshell. How does one come back with a reply when a daughter tells you her dad wasn’t a good man? I guarantee you the shrinkiest of shrinks doesn’t have a good answer for that one.
Thank the heavens the captain chose the moment before I was about to scoop Emma in my arms and carry her off to a private island where she could never be hurt again to fire the engines to life. The water churning broke both our silences.
“Question two?” she asked, visibly bracing herself.
“I promise,”—I crossed my fingers over my heart—“they won’t be as . . . emotional as the beginning of our Q and A.”
“Like I said, your easy is everyone’s hard,” she said as she wrestled the heels from her feet. Tossing them to the side, she folded her arms over the table and leaned forward, fixing her eyes on me. “Bring it on.”