Holy shit, I’m wearing a Voltron sweatshirt to a swanky wine bar. How the hell did this happen?

I managed to snag the perfect parking spot right in front of the place—also helps that I’ve got my trusty little Smart Car, which I realize looks almost exactly like my parents’ first clown car. That killed my joy a tiny bit, but I named it the TARDIS and felt better. It’s small on the outside, roomy inside! And lime green, so not really the TARDIS, but I mean—

Okay. Wine bar. I should’ve looked more closely at the address when I typed it into my GPS. I got the stupid idea it was a coffee shop, and dressed for the occasion. Sneakers, gray yoga pants, and said Voltron sweatshirt. It’s my nicer Voltron sweatshirt—the robot’s got the sword and everything.

Maybe, just maybe, I’ve forgotten how to be social.

The people coming in and out of the bar look like the type who jet set to Capri on a moment’s notice. There is no body fat on the people here. Maybe I can’t even get through the door because of that. Maybe they have a retina scan that detects whether you’re rich or not.

Why would a retina scan be able to tell that?

Flushing, I take my notebook and purse and walk quickly into the bar with my head down. I pass a couple of futuristic-looking lamps, like the kind that resemble a Tesla coil but fancier. The whole ambience of this place is Blade Runner meets billionaire. The bartenders dress in black silk, and the ambient lighting is soft. Glasses wink in the light, and people eye me over their expensive Malbec. I wish I’d worn my leather jacket instead. Yes, it has pink hearts on it with “Pink Ladies 2014” in glitter paint, but it was the best high school production of Grease in Seattle, dammit.

This is where I stop, and turn around, and walk straight out the door. Damn the Gucci set and their nitrogen cocktails or whatever everyone’s drinking in here, I am way underdressed. I’ll text Will from the car and tell him that I died. That will go over without a hitch.

“Chelle! Where are you going?” There he is, right on schedule. I let myself pivot slowly, wondering if I can come at him with a convincing fake accent. Chelle, who ees thees? I yam but a French spy, monsieur.

The fake accent wedges itself in my throat and refuses to come out, because Will takes my ability to talk away. His hair’s attractively tousled, like he’s fresh out of a shower. He’s in a dark blue sports coat over a deep blue shirt, one that sets off his tan and reveals his cross fit physique. Just the barest glimpse of his chest is revealed, and it’s so perfectly sculpted that I nearly start drooling on Voltron.

Voltron wouldn’t mind. Voltron knows a smoking hot man when he’s standing in front of it.

“I, ah, don’t think I’m appropriate.” Let’s face it, I never am, but usually I at least look nice. Will’s finally taking me in, scoping out my ponytail, my freshly washed, makeup-less face, my yoga pants.

Dear god, my yoga pants. I could’ve gone with black. At least I could’ve passed that off as Armani in dim light.

“Let’s just get you a drink,” Will says at last.

“I don’t think I can be here. I think you need a mid five figure salary to be allowed in the door.”

“Then I’m good for both of us,” he says casually. Big spender, then. I flush a little in embarrassment.

“I don’t look right.”

“You look like a person, which is right enough. Alcohol will help your anxiety. All the best doctors tell you that,” he says, cocking an eyebrow as he leads me on. It’s like being led along in a fairytale, an LA fairytale where the enchanted forest is all exposed brick and casual bongo music, and the enchanter is a fabulously attractive man with a lot of cash and a pinch of arrogance.

I hear you in the audience yelling at me that that’s about perfect, but I don’t see it that way.

We finally sit at a table with a small, open fire pit. I’ll have to remember not to accidentally fall face first into the coals, though it might be a blessing right now. A waiter with a hipster goatee and a billowy poet’s shirt takes our order—he’s taking a whiskey on the rocks, I’ll have all the wine in existence. Then it’s us, him and his fancy clothes, me and my Hello Kitty purse and notebook. I don’t need to bring Hello Kitty out at this moment, but I feel it regarding me from inside my bag, judging me.

“Man, I thought this was a coffee shop,” I say by way of explanation. The wine gets here, and I take a polite chug. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to run out back there and leave you hanging. It’s just that between this really swanky place, and the soft lighting, and the romantic music, and the snooty wait staff, and your classy outfit, this is the last place I would’ve picked for a casual meeting about a school play and holy shit this is a date, isn’t it?”

It all comes running out of me like a colorful waterfall of crazy. Will’s watching me with the patient, steely gaze of a man who realizes what he’s locked himself into.

I’m on a date with a parent of a student. No, no, this isn’t happening. Gotta get up, Chelle. No matter how hot he is, or how great he is, or how amazing that kiss was, or how perfect his lips are, or how hot he is—wait, you said that already. Shit. Get new material.

Before I can either run out of the place or inadvertently light something on fire, which was option number two, Will does something I didn’t expect.

He laughs. Not the wheezy kind of laughter, or the psycho killer laughter, both of which would’ve been turn offs. It’s the kind of delighted, and utterly surprised, laugh that someone gives when something good’s happened.

It almost makes me feel like a not-screw-up. Almost.

“Yes, this is a date.” He looks at me across the table, the firelight casting wicked shadows across the elegant planes of his face. This is wicked in the best way. “At least, it can be.”

“Eh?” I’m glad I made that noise instead of boi-oi-oing and having my tongue roll out of my mouth like a carpet. I was supposed to react to the word “date” like it was shocking to my very delicate, ladylike sensibilities. Instead, it all but melted me where I’m sitting.

“I believe in negotiations. If you choose this,” he says, laying a hand on my notebook, “we finish our drinks, discuss the play, and head home. No repeats, no renegotiations.” He’s now giving a half-smile, his eyes coming alive with the challenge. “But if you agree to put it away, this becomes a date. No strings, no promises of anything other than a drink or two. And we see where the night goes from there.”

God, he’s got that cocky edge to his voice. He knows he’s not going to lose.

“Suppose I choose option A?” I don’t care if this guy’s gorgeous—I mean, I care a little—but he doesn’t get to assume total conquest. I take a sip of my wine, feeling pretty fancy, even in my Voltron sweatshirt.

Will grins, looking charmingly wolf-like. Very charming. “You could, but that’d be the less adventurous option. That doesn’t much sound like you, does it?” he asks.

Nope. I once hog-tied a rattlesnake to keep it from getting at our best tap-dancing pig. I was born adventurous.

“You don’t know me very well,” I say, still trying to be cautious. I think that’s what I’m doing, at least.

“Last I checked, getting to know each other was a reason for a date.”

Well, touché then, sir. “No funny business?” I notice Will takes too long to respond. “Hey!”

“Sorry, I was going to make a clown joke but stopped myself.” He leans back, confident, invulnerable, and wearing really, really nice cologne. It smells like success and a dense pine forest. “What do you say, Chelle?”

After a moment of careful thought, I slide my notebook off the table and back into my bag. Will’s smile only widens. After all, it’s just one drink. What’s the worst that could happen, besides losing my job, embarrassing myself in front of a man I’ll have to spend large amounts of time with, and probably lighting the table on fire by accident?

That’s all pretty bad. But the worst? The worst would be walking away, because this man is infuriating and wonderful in equal measure.

I take another sip of wine while I think, and finally, “I say we should take a look at the menu. We might be here a while.”

I think that’s plenty brave enough for Will. In fact, I’d say it’s damn near a turn on.

“You left town in the middle of the night with an exam the next morning?” Will and I are now much closer, cozied up in a corner of the table. My wine’s winking at me in the glass, or at least what’s left of it is winking. Heh. Wine with eyes.

I’m a little drunk, shhhh.

“The ACT, mind you. I would’ve had a perfect score, too, if it hadn’t been for Melissa Ann’s birthday party over in Glendale.” I shake my fist at the ceiling. “Curse you, parents, for putting me in charge of the bubble machine.” Hell, I can always say I was learning a trade. In fact I did, on my application to Northwestern. They ate that part up with a spoon.

“Didn’t you miss any of your friends?” Will’s removed his jacket by now, and that shirt is beautifully tailored to his body, picking out every definition and firm line.

Mmm. Firm. Mmm, line. Wine. Whatever.

“If I had any to miss, sure. But Mongo Jerry the pig and Peaches the banana slug were allll the friends I needed.” The hours I spent pouring my little adolescent heart out to a slug should not be recorded in the history books. We should let that part die.

“No boyfriends left behind in the caravan’s dust?” Will slides my wine glass back to me, brushing his fingertips against mine as I take it. A warm, delicious shiver runs down my spine at that touch. I cross my legs as the heat pools between my legs. My head’s fuzzy and this man is perfectly attentive. It’s going to be hard going home alone tonight.

“I didn’t really date in high school. Once a guy knows you can juggle better than him, it’s game over.”

“Boys are fucking idiots. I like to see a woman who’s good with her hands,” Will says.

Mmm, so many ball handling jokes, so little time.

“And for you? Were there dozens of fainting teenage girls left behind in your wake?”

“Hundreds.” He leans in closer, whispering in my ear, “I never lie.”

“You’re so modest.”

“No, never that. Just skillful,” he says, his tone getting deeper and richer by the second. Jesus Christ, I’m about to fall out of my seat, and that’s mainly not the alcohol talking. Slowly, ever so slowly, Will’s hand slides down to rest on my thigh. I can’t help a soft gasp that escapes; he seems pleased to hear it. “I’m kidding, of course. Well, not the skillful part. More like three.”

“So, practically a monk,” I drawl. Will shrugs, liquid and effortless.

“I was second string on the football team in small town USA; I could’ve gotten laid all I wanted. But I studied too much, and besides, I like women who are a challenge,” he says.

His fingers trail along my thigh, tentative, seeing how far I’ll let him go. Fuck, but I’m prepared to let him go very far. The second before he arrives at, er, the final destination, I put my hand on his. Stop him cold in his tracks. Will stiffens—not in that way. Well, maybe, I’m not sitting in his lap so I can’t tell. He makes a low noise in his throat, practically a growl. The way he squeezes my thigh, and the smile playing on his lips both make me think he likes the hunt.

“So you wanted to see if you could bag the cute little redhead at your daughter’s school?” I try to make that sound easy, but I’m worried there’s truth to it.

Will takes his hand away. Crap, I may have been onto something.

“I think you’re using the wrong words,” he says coolly.

Ah, there we go. Control freak time. I probably needed to hit at least seven of fifteen of his would bang vocabulary words.

“Should’ve gotten rid of cute?”

“Definitely. Sultry. Smartass. Beautiful.” His eyes trail to my chest—I took off Voltron when it got a little warm in here. “Fantastically endowed. We could start there.”

“Where’s it going to end?” I ask, my breath catching in my throat. I’ve never squeaked so sexily before.

“That depends on the next move,” Will says as he draws me against him and kisses me. It’s not a surprise move like it was the last time. Now, I’m aware of everything as he leans down, ghosting his lips over mine for one brief instant. It’s him checking to see if this is okay. Which it shouldn’t be, because he’s still a parent and I’m still a questionable professional.

“Yes,” I breathe, and he captures my mouth with his. I moan against his lips as he traces a hand along the edge of my tank top, as he brushes his fingers along the swell of my breast. My nipples harden at the merest touch. For tonight, fuck school and everything else. It’s been a long time since my last relationship, and I’m not the type that goes out to a bar looking for a fling. My body’s ready for this.

“We’ve had a little too much to drink,” he says softly, his lips still brushing against mine. At first I’m afraid he’s going to imply I’m out of my mind with booze and that we should table this. Because my body is slamming on the internal gas, roaring down the Fury Road of sex. Whatever that means. I need to stop watching Mad Max movies before I fall asleep.

Thankfully, he continues, “We shouldn’t drive.”

“Uber exists,” I say, getting out my phone without dropping it. Score one for me, especially as I nearly do drop it when his hand caresses my thigh just inches away from the danger zone.

Kenny Loggins, I don’t need you in my head right now. I’m about to get laid.