Chapter Eight

Do not make a fool of yourself. Listen and try not to talk too much. Also, don’t do the elbow on table thing again. It doesn’t work. Why did I ask this man to dine with me? Why am I sitting here in this restaurant?

What have I done?

The table is placed near a large windowpane overlooking the shopfront’s footpath. A crystal vase with a single yellow daisy sits beside oversized salt and pepper shakers on top of a crisp white tablecloth. My hands shake as I lift my phone from the table and open the messenger app.

Shuffling in my seat—trying to alleviate my nerves—only makes my shaking hands tremble worse. Pull it together, will you? This isn’t a date. It’s dinner with a friend. It’s no different than dinner with Chris.

Shit, you need to message Chris.

I roam my vision past the people standing in the pick-up line until I find Arlie. He’s standing side on, and I forget about messaging Chris for the second time. Arlie is hot from every. Single. Angle.

He suddenly snaps around until he’s facing me.

“Do clue bout any toy cause?” Arlie mouths.

I hitch my top lip upwards. “Huh?”

“Do clue bout any toy cause?” he mouths again.

“What?”

“Do you want any soy sauce?” he yells with a smile.

“No, thank you,” I mouth. “Did you get that?” I yell.

“Yes,” he mouths dramatically before turning his back to me.

I’m giggling when I relax and shift my attention back to my phone. Oh shit, I still need to message Chris and tell him what’s happened. Holy hell, how did all this happen? What spurred courage to spark through my veins until it found its way to my mouth?

 

Me: CHRIS!! I’m at the Chinese place. You’re not going to believe who’s here.

 

I keep my vision planted on the screen, hoping for an immediate reply.

I don’t wait long.

 

Chris: OMG! Who is it? Chris Hemsworth? Please say it’s him. I'm grabbing my coat. Hang on, I don't have a coat. I'm clutching my crotch, and I'm on my way.

 

Me: Bahaha. No! It's not Chris Hemsworth. You can unhand your genitals. It’s Arlie. That guy from the cafe. You know, the one I darted under the table to escape?

 

Chris: Get the farq out. Well, say hello or something! Fake fall into him if you need to. GET HIS ATTENTION NOW! Don’t hide under any tables. DO NOT RUN!

 

Me: Lol. I didn’t hide. I did fall into Arlie, but it wasn’t faked for attention, I swear. However, I've somehow managed to ask him to eat with me.

 

Chris: OMG! OMG! Did you? That’s my girl. Awesome. What did he say?

 

Me: Yes! He’s collecting our food right now. I’ll bring something back for you to eat, I swear.

 

Chris: I think I’ve fainted. I’ve never been as proud of you as I am right now. Food? Don’t be silly. Go enjoy yourself. Fletcher and I’ll eat tuna. We like tuna. Plus, you’re already dressed to impress.

 

Chris: Hey! Off topic, but the book on your recliner. I started reading it after The Bachelor finished. GIRL!!!! THIS SHIT IS STEAMY AS FUCK!! I’m thoroughly entertained, and a tad shocked you own a book like this.

 

Me: Is it Secrets in the Night? If so, you bought me the book.

 

Chris: Yes! Well, this makes more sense then. Ha ha.

 

Me: I love you. I’m sorry I’m not coming straight back.

 

Chris: You wash your mouth out. You’re in a restaurant with a MEGA-HOT guy. If it were me, I’d be ditching you without a second thought. There is no ‘bros before hoes’ code in our friendship. Go get him, tiger.

 

Me: OMG! Wish me luck?

 

Chris: You don’t need it. Baby bird, I’ve taught you well. Trust me, this fluffy pink chicken thinks you’re ready to fly the nest. Relax, fly free, and most of all, have fun.

 

Me: Chickens don’t fly.

 

Chris: Why? Why you gotta mess with my spectacular euphemism? This chicken flies, and since you’re my baby bird, so do you.

 

Me: Lol. Love you.

 

Chris: Shh! I’m reading. Go away already. These two are about to get it on. I don’t want your face to be the one I'm left to imagine. Chris Hemsworth is the face I need to be visualising. Scat!

 

I snicker before placing my phone screen down against the tablecloth. I rotate my head towards the collection counter and admire Arlie’s back. I can see every muscle outlined thanks to his tight T-shirt. His boardshorts sag just enough off his butt, but not so much that he looks like he’s packing a major turd in his pants. Oh, the surfer chic look—he does it so well.

Slowly, he turns, and as he does, all I’m thinking is, turn for me, baby. Show me all of you, every single bit. That is, until I see the two plates in his grip and the wicker basket filled with prawn chips tucked under his chin. I leap upwards and dart towards him.

“Here, let me help you.” I take the plates from his hands.

“I would have been fine.”

“I’m sure you would have, Hercules, but you know I have two hands, you have two hands, and more hands make for light work and stuff.”

He grins.

We sit on either side of the squared table. Arlie takes a cream cloth napkin and tucks it into the top of his shirt before we again make eye contact. “I can get a little messy when eating.” He shrugs.

“Me too,” I say, reaching for my napkin, opening it out, and laying it against my lap.

“I’m so hungry," he groans as he licks his lips.

I squeeze my thighs together as fast as Usain Bolt sprints the one hundred metres, at lightning speed, because the way Arlie licked his lips was sensual, too sensual, and it's making me tingle in places I don’t need to be tingling right now. “Me too,” I manage to choke out with a gentle clearing of my throat.

"Dig in."

I pick up the set of chopsticks laid against the plate and glare at the wood skewers, trying to remember the last time I ate with this type of utensil. It’s been a while, and honestly, I’ve never been good at using them. I fiddle, trying to place them between my fingers correctly, and I know I’m making a fool of myself with my clumsy manoeuvring, but I keep trying in the hope I’ll sort it out.

I don’t. I tilt my chin back and close my eyes in prayer. Please, can you do your thing and make me look like a Chinese chopstick ninja in front of this hot guy? I’ll be more than thankful if you can, big man. Not a usual dinner prayer, probably not even an appropriate one, but one I had to make.

I slowly part my eyelids and lower my chin, only to find Arlie holding a fork. I clear my throat as he shovels a large forkful of pork into his mouth. “Oh, thank God.” My tone is filled with relief. “I can’t use chopsticks well.”

Arlie chews quickly before swallowing. “I’ve never bothered to try hard enough. I’m no chopstick ninja. I’m Aussie, not Chinese, and if I'm honest, I’d prefer to eat my food with these utensils.” He moves his fingers like a hand puppet. “But I’m in the company of a lady, so I’ll use a fork for you.” He tips his chin knowingly.

I feel my lips stretch across my face until they burn.

“This makes you happy?”

“You just said chopstick ninja.”

He nods.

“I internally willed my chopsticks to help me perform like I was a Chinese chopstick ninja only like a second ago.”

A small laugh passes his lips. “Great minds think alike, hey?”

“I guess so.” Nothing’s going to wipe this smile off my face. Nothing.

“Eat up before your chicken goes cold. I love this place. Their food is delicious, even more so when enjoyed hot.”

“It is.” I snatch a prawn chip from the cane basket. “Now, these little pink suckers are my favourite. Who doesn’t love a good prawn cracker?”

Arlie opens his mouth and leaves it open as though he’s a seal waiting for a fish treat. After a few seconds pass, he smacks his lips together and narrows his eyes. I’m not sure what’s happening.

“Go on. Put one of those in my pie hole, would ya?”

I steady my hand when he dips his chin again and opens his mouth.

“Don’t bite my fingers, you hear?” I edge in closer to his big white teeth, and he smiles right before he uses his lips to pull the prawn cracker from my fingertips.

I giggle in response.

“Best prawn chip ever. I’ll have another, thank you.”

I bat my hand into the air. “Get it yourself.”

He leans in, taking a chip from the basket. “Open up. I’ll repay the favour.”

I gulp. It’s not a soft-sounding gulp. It’s hard and easy to hear the noise.

“Relax,” he says, breathy.

I follow his request and part my teeth. I close my eyes. His finger skims my bottom lip, causing a tickling sensation which makes me shiver. I bite down softly and claim the cracker for myself. “Yum,” I moan as I spring my eyes open.

“Right? Best Chinese in town."

I nod, flustered, flushed, but oh-so satisfied.

The chatter of those ordering at the counter fills the quiet between us as we eat. It’s not an uncomfortable silence. It’s very mellow and homey. I’ve only ever known this feeling with Chris, a few of my closest friends from back home in Queensland, and my family.

I relax into my seat opposite a man I don’t know with no fear of saying anything dumb anymore. There are no nerves steamrolling my gut or tying it in knots, and I’ve no sirens wailing in my head telling me to boycott immediately. I’m dressed to impress in a place where nobody goes to such effort with their appearance, but with Arlie, I feel like I’m in the company of a trusted and old friend.

“So, tell me something, Melinda. What do you do? Work? Daily stuff? Something?” Arlie takes the napkin tucked into his shirt and dabs the corners of his lips before scrunching it up and dumping it on his empty plate.

“I’m a folder, not a scruncher.” I tilt my head to the side and bat my eyelashes melodramatically as I take the napkin from my lap, dab the corners of my lips, and neatly fold it into four before resting it on my plate.

He stifles a laugh as he again narrows his eyes, only this time in a way that makes him appear more serious. “Well, that’s something we don’t have in common then, because I scrunch everything. I’m a born and bred scruncher. I love to scrunch.”

“Good to know. Folding is my jam.” I smile.

Arlie laughs. His laugh is the sexiest laugh I’ve ever heard.

“So, tell me something, Arlie, what do you do? Work? Daily stuff? Anything you want to share?”

“Nice. I see what you did there. It takes some real talent to flip the questioning. Bravo.”

I cross one arm in front of my body and bow my head to my impressed audience of one.

“Is this your talent?”

I shrug. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Sure, sure. You’re the master of conversation flipping.”

“Arlie, are you now trying to divert the conversation so you can flip the question back to me?”

He pinches the material of his shirt just under each collarbone and pretends to straighten it at the same time as he lengthens his posture. “Not at all. Here goes: so, I’m a gym owner. I have a younger sister I call Boo because I used to scare the crap out of her as a child, all the flipping time, and she would scream BOO instead of screaming in horror like a normal person.” He tilts his head to the side and smirks as if he’s thinking of a time this happened. “My sister, Hazel, has a four-year-old daughter who is my most favourite, and may I mention the only niece I have in the entire world. Her name is Agatha, and yes, she was named after Agatha Christie because my sister had her when she was only seventeen. You see, throughout her pregnancy, she would hide in her room and read mystery and crime novels to pass the time. The name suits her, though, Agatha. She’s a miniature crime-solving detective if I’ve ever seen one. Smart little brat.” Arlie twitches his nose and turns his eyes upwards for a moment before rebounding his sight to mine. “My mother passed away when I was ten. My father is still alive, though. He raised Hazel and me alone for a long time until he met Tillie. Tillie’s nice, and we like her. My dad is a bloody brilliant dad.” Arlie twists his lips. “Okay. One more thing, I drive a truck, she’s my baby, my pride and joy, and together we go on many outdoorsy adventures.” There’s a long pause. “That’s about me. You?”

“Oh, okay. We’re both doing this. I see.”

He nods.

“One moment.” I take a mouthful of water and try to buy some time until I know what to say. “Okay, so, I’m a receptionist.” Do not tell him it’s for an escort service. “I’ve lived in Melbourne for just over two years, I think. Yeah, that’s about right. I’m originally from Queensland. I have one sister … older. Her name is Bridey. She’s not had any children yet, but she recently got married. Well, about four years ago now, actually, but she’s married, and I know she wants kids so maybe one day soon.” I cross my fingers. “My mother and father are both living. They were and are good to us. I have a best friend, Chris, who you met.”

“He’s a character that lad, yeah?”

“Oh, isn’t he ever? He’ll crack onto any guy who has ‘a good booty and all the looks’, as he puts it. I'm sorry he hit on you.”

“Nah, don’t be. I was flattered.” He pauses. “So, you think I have a good arse and some looks, hey?”

“I didn’t say that.” But hell, am I thinking it.

“I see. Keep going.”

“Umm. Chris is great to me. I don’t know what I’d do without him.” I rack my brain for other things to say. I bite down on my lip and then it hits me. The cat killer from tonight. What if Arlie hates cats too? Worse still, what if he mows them down? “I have a cat named Fletcher. He’s a needy old cat.” I wait with bated breath.

“There’s no way he’s needier than Baskins. That cat runs our shared house.”

“You like cats?”

“I love all animals. I have a dog, a dachshund, as well. His name is Miscuit, like biscuit, but with an M. They’re both my animals, but the three guys I live with treat them like they belong to them too.”

“Shared house?” I cock my eyebrows.

“Yeah. I like it. We’re training buddies. Football. Play on the same team. It’s what we’ve done since after we finished school. The company is amazing, and we have enough space to be really comfortable.”

“That’s pretty sweet.”

“I wouldn’t say sweet. Maybe manly.” A soft line forms in the centre of his forehead.

I laugh.

“So you live with your boyfriend and a cat. You’ve not mentioned the guy you’re with.”

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I’m going to have to tell Arlie I lied, but then what does that say about my character? Maybe I can tell him he died? No, that would look even worse, considering the timeframe. Plus, saying something of that nature in general is a bad thing to do. Karma—she’s a controlling bitch I need to avoid. Maybe I can tell him we broke up, but then he’ll think I know how to be in a relationship, which I don’t. Oh, what a mess.

“I don’t have a boyfriend. I lied.” Like ripping off a fucking Band-Aid. Fast. Get it off, and hope for the best for whatever lay underneath.

“I knew already. You’re not a convincing liar.”

I drop my chin and mumble, “I know.”

“So, you live with Chris?”

“No. It’s only me and Fletcher, my cat, in an apartment together.”

“Cool. What’s with the frock and look you've got going on tonight?” He waves his hand up and down in front of his chest.

“Oh, this little old thing? I wear clothes like this all the time.”

“Are you doing that lying thing again?”

“Yep!”

Arlie shakes his head. “So what were you up to, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I had a blind date. It didn’t go very well.”

“Too bad.”

“It’s okay.”

“Sounds like the guy was an idiot, if you ask me.”

I know I’m blushing. I don’t need any mirrors to inspect my now flushed cheeks.

“Melinda, do you think it would be okay if I asked you for your number? I have to go in a minute.” Arlie glances at the watch wrapped to his wrist. “But I’d like to see you again. Maybe we can catch up sometime?”

Oh, my GOD! My mind’s screaming, bum dancing, and hyperventilating all at the same time. “Yeah. Cool. Whatevs.”

Why did I just speak like a punk teen?

Arlie laughs as he grabs his mobile phone from the table. “Do you want to punch the numbers in or should I?”

“I’ll do it,” I reply very quickly, probably too quickly.

When Arlie’s fingertips touch mine, I feel an instant connection. It’s not like sparks of electricity shoot through my body or fireworks explode in front of my eyes, like I read in books. It’s a calm, contented connection … a homey feeling.

I type my details into Arlie’s phone, taking a moment to stop and catch a glimpse of this god-like man who sits across from me. I need to know what his expression currently projects. Body language means so much more than words, and I’m hoping his body language can tell me where I stand right now.

Why has he asked for my number? Is it out of kindness, now that he knows I’ve had a lousy date, but he'll never call and I'll never see him again? Or is he being sincere?

Arlie’s eyes target his phone. His face speaks novels. He’s eager, maybe even a tad excited, and this sets an air of exhilaration to blossom within me.

“All done,” I say, passing his phone back.

“Thanks. I’ll give you a call sometime.”

“That’d be nice.”

“But I do need to go.”

“Okay.”

“Have a good night.” He stands.

“You too.” I watch his tattoo on his calf as he walks away. I hope him leaving isn’t the end of this because being around Arlie is like walking through a freshly mowed park on a warm summer afternoon after it’s rained: refreshing, comforting, fresh.

I’ve been on a date with a man who was all types of crazy only to end up on another date, not even an hour later, with a man who sets me at ease.

Fate had a plan for me tonight, and I witnessed it firsthand. Talk about a serendipitous moment when I needed one the most, and a chance of maybe finding my happily ever after.

Is Arlie going to be my happily ever after? I sure hope so.

Please, God, let him be mine. Please.