“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?”