“Sorry, did you say something?” Graham ‘Not My Date’ Morris asked as he walked past me and into the house. When he turned to face me again, I could see a glimmer of amusement in his green eyes, a smile curling his lips once more.
Shit. He must have heard me muttering to myself like a crazy person just now.
I could feel my cheeks heat, so I pivoted, hiding my face from him. Which was a mistake, because that meant I was facing the mantel.
I took a deep, steadying breath. No need to let the waterworks start again. That would only reinforce the idea that I was cuckoo bananas.
Plus, I was tired of crying.
“Never mind,” I grunted. “Make yourself comfortable.” I gestured to the couch. “Taylor’s almost ready.”
“Taylor,” he echoed, his voice sounding much too close. I turned again, jumping slightly when I realized he was right behind me. “Right.”
I looked up – way up – until my eyes locked with his. I found myself completely unable to look away from them, in fact. They really were the perfect shade of leaf green, with a darker rim around the irises. He was standing close enough for me to see the little speckles of amber in them. He was close enough for me to smell his clean, woodsy scent and feel the heat coming off him.
I cleared my throat and took a step back, reminding myself that he was Taylor’s date. Their third date, an almost unprecedented occurrence. Which meant she must really like this one. Which meant back the fuck off, Larkin, because nothing ever would or ever should happen here.
“Would you like something to drink while you wait?” I asked in my politest tone, though it felt stiff and rusty from disuse.
“Water, please, uh…” he trailed off, looking at me apologetically. “I’m sorry, Taylor told me your name once. I think.” He smiled sheepishly. “I’m bad with names.”
Hunh. So the perfect man was not actually perfect. And fuck if that didn’t make him kind of… likeable.
No. Not likeable. I did not like him, because he was not my damn date.
But he was blinking at me expectantly, waiting for me to give him my name.
“Larkin,” I told him. “Larkin Michaels.”
“Pretty name. One I will definitely remember.” He gave me a warm smile. “Nice to meet you, Larkin Michaels.”
I couldn’t answer, couldn’t even say thanks. I was too busy staring again. I noticed that the corners of his eyes were crinkled, telling me he must smile a lot.
He cleared his throat, a subtle reminder to me to stop being a creeper. His gaze flicked down, and I followed it to see that he was holding his hand out to shake.
Oh, right. Politeness.
I took his hand in mine, and the contact of his skin against mine sent a little jolt of energy through my limbs, making me shiver. I quickly withdrew my hand, frowning up at him.
What the fuck was that?
“Sorry, my hand is probably cold,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.
It wasn’t. It was warm and dry, but I couldn’t find my voice to tell him that. His eyes were boring into mine, and it was starting to unnerve me.
“It’s chilly tonight,” he added, as though that would explain it. He looked out the window, where the birch tree in my front yard was quivering, silhouetted in the moonlight. “And windy.”
I nodded absently, finally breaking his gaze and looking down at my hand. I’d never felt something like that. The energy from our brief touch still ghosted down my spine. I shivered again and wrapped my arms around myself, wondering what could have caused that shock.
This Graham dude must be one of those people who emit static electricity randomly. Or he’d spent all day shuffling his huge feet across industrial carpet, more likely. I knew he and Taylor worked together, and her office was your typical corporate cubicle wasteland. The little zap I’d gotten from this very tall, very not-my-date man was surely nothing more than a sudden discharge of pent-up energy.
Because it was definitely not one of those cliché romance novel moments when you meet the man of your dreams and all of a sudden the Earth moves because the chemistry between you is just like, so electric. Because hello, that crap is pure make-believe, a dangerous fantasy that only ever causes misery when all the deluded people who bought into it finally realize it isn’t true.
Plus, the man of my dreams was dead. So there was that.
“So, do you guys do this kind of thing often? Double dates, I mean?” he asked, completely oblivious to my internal crazy.
I shook my head sharply, trying to snap myself out of it. “Not in a while,” I hedged.
Not since Daniel, I added silently.
And then, of course, my brain took the opportunity to torture me, filling my head with memories of all the times my husband and I had joined Taylor and the latest Mr. Friday Night for an evening of fun. It didn’t really matter what we did. Bowling, movies, bonfires on the beach, trips into the city to see a show or hit up a museum. The guys were usually duds, but we always had a good time together, my husband, my best friend, and me.
I closed my eyes, willing away the tears that were threatening to surface again. After a long, hairy moment, I rallied, and decided to continue with the whole polite thing, since I was (mostly) succeeding at it so far.
“So, how long have you known Taylor?”
He smiled again, his lips settling into the expression with ease. Yeah, he definitely smiled a lot. Not that I was complaining. It was a gorgeous smile.
“Not very long,” he replied. “I met her at work a few months ago.”
I nodded, not really sure what to say after that. He was staring at me again. I couldn’t think straight when those eyes were focused on me.
“Do you know your date well?” he asked after a minute that seemed to stretch on forever.
I shook my head again. “No, he works with Taylor, too, I guess. It’s a blind date.” I shrugged. The prospect of my own date had become way less interesting in the last few minutes.
Since I’d opened the front door and seen Graham Morris on the other side of it, in fact.
“Oh. That sounds… fun,” he said, sounding unconvinced. But he smiled that eye-crinkling smile again, like we were sharing a joke about the hilarity of blind dates.
Before I could make what would probably have been another stilted, awkward reply, Taylor made her entrance. As usual, she whirled into the room like sunshine on a summer day, her long, perfectly-styled blond hair bouncing luxuriously, her perfectly white, even teeth on full display in a dazzling smile. My best friend since kindergarten, ladies and gentlemen. Taylor Kusmierski was a force of nature. Or a walking shampoo commercial. I could never decide which.
Graham’s eyes were immediately drawn to Taylor, just like every human being who has ever been in her presence. She flashed him her most alluring smile, accentuated by four coats of lip gloss. I frowned when Graham’s smile widened.
“Graham!” she crooned.
“Hey, Taylor,” he replied, giving her the same smile that he’d given me a moment ago.
Not that it bothered me. Because he was not my fucking date.
“You’re early!” she added cheerfully, as though that were the best thing to ever happen to her. Taylor had a way of making you feel like everything you did was the best thing ever. She believed that it was important to make people feel valued, and she avidly practiced what she preached.
After a catwalk across the room, she raised herself on tiptoes and air kissed the man who was not my date, careful not to smudge her makeup.
“I’m so excited for tonight!” she continued.
“Me too,” he replied, smiling down at her.
It was a mark of how tall he was that he had to actually look down at her, since Taylor was five-eight when barefoot, and currently wearing four-inch stilettos. It was tough for her to find a man who was taller than her in heels. Suddenly, the fact that Graham had made it to date number three made a whole lot more sense.
Taylor looked around the room. “Well, since Graham is early, and Harry isn’t here yet, we have time for you to change.” She narrowed her blue eyes at me in a silent warning even as her smile grew.
I refrained from rolling my eyes, barely. “I don’t need to change, Taylor.”
Not true, strictly speaking. I knew I looked barely one step above a homeless person, and that my ensemble was unfit for pretty much everything except scrubbing oil stains from the garage floor. I just didn’t care.
Mostly, I amended, taking in the way Graham was eyeing the hole in the hem of my sweater. Well, Daniel’s sweater. Not mine.
“Larkin,” Taylor said, as sternly as her bubbly, high-pitched voice allowed. “You cannot wear that to the restaurant we’re going to. It’s an upscale place.”
This time I let the eye roll roam free. “It’s Baxter’s, Tay. They give you paper bibs with a cartoon lobster on them. And they haven’t updated the decor since 1982.”
Graham coughed, a sound that I suspected was covering a laugh.
She widened her eyes, her smile going slightly manic. “Well, I’m sure you want to make a good impression on Harry,” she retorted sweetly.
I glared at her.
“Of course you do,” she answered for me. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me bodily, like she was about to frog-march me out of the room. “We’ll be right back, Graham. Make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is through there if you’d like something to drink.”
Oh, yeah. I’d forgotten his water in all the excitement of hot man and electric touches and he’s not my fucking date.
He nodded, and Taylor gave him another dazzling smile as she pushed me toward the hall. Just before we disappeared out of sight, I turned to look at Graham over my shoulder, intending to shoot him an apology about the water – only to find him staring out the window, his hands tugging his hair in what seemed like frustration.
Hunh. Seemed he maybe wasn’t so excited about this date after all.
Good. That made two of us.