Dylan
Walking and tweeting, jogging and Facebooking, and running and emailing all require a particular type of focus. I’m not saying I’m a pro at that sort of multitasking. Not at all.
But I do enjoy a good cell phone mishap tale. “Let me guess.”
She parks her hands on her hips, saying go for it.
I study her, tapping my finger against my bottom lip, as if I can discern how she might have landed on a YouTube compilation of cell phone mishaps. Then I find myself distracted because Evie is an interesting combination of cute and sexy—she has a perfectly put-together look to her with her shampoo-commercial hair and her outlined lips, but her clothes are fun, and even though they’re completely appropriate, they don’t hide the tight, trim figure she has.
Her legs are muscular, her waist is trim, and her breasts are small, but firm. She has a certain blue-eyed, fair-haired bubbliness, like you might run into her on Rodeo Drive with a chihuahua poking its head out of an expensive handbag on her arm. But instead, she’s a New Yorker through and through, and a bargain hunter. And her lips, all slick with pale pink gloss, they look perfect for—
I slam on the brakes. “I don’t think it was a street sign.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Not a trash can, either.”
“Correct there, too.”
I screw up the corner of my lips. “Did you take a tumble down some stairs?”
“Nope.”
I snap my fingers. “Sidewalk grate.”
Her smile spreads across her face, and that bubbliness is out in full force. “I don’t know why I’m smiling. It hurt like the dickens.”
“Was it a sidewalk grate left wide open?”
“Do I detect a little fascination with the abomination in your tone?”
I shrug sheepishly. “A little. You can tell me to shut up.”
She laughs. “It happened several months ago. I was answering a message from a client, walking down the street like I could handle anything that came my way, click-clacking along, and I smacked into the grate. With my thighs.”
“How did you not fall headfirst? I’ve seen YouTube videos of this happening, and the person almost always falls headfirst.”
“Yoga.”
I groan inside. Is she one of those yoga-is-life people? Meditation and moon cycles and be-mindfulness bore me to tears. “I always thought yoga was sort of dull. All that om would lead to me doing this,” I say, then drop my head to the side and snore loudly.
She shoots me a quizzical look, and I realize I’ve done that thing again—where I say what’s on my mind, and I should maybe lock up some of my thoughts more tightly. “Sorry. I meant to say, yoga obviously teaches badass ninja reflexes.”
She winks. “Nice save. Although I think it taught me balance, and as soon as I felt I was off-balance, I let myself fall back onto my butt. Maybe you should try yoga since I noticed you might be a candidate for a cell phone mishap, too, someday.”
“True, that. But on another note, is there a scar on your butt, too?” My eyes widen, and I cringe. “Shoot. Was that inappropriate?”
“There’s no rear-end scar on this booty,” she says, smacking her ass, and for a flash of a second, I’m jealous of her palm connecting with her curves.
But that’s a strange feeling. Like an errant piece of code. Because why would I want to smack her ass?
“But I did require five stitches on my chin,” she adds.
“I never thought I’d meet an in-the-flesh phone-faller,” I say.
“And that’s why I don’t walk and text.”
“I completely understand your reticence, and I greatly appreciate you sharing the story of such woe.”
“Glad I could entertain you.”
I point to Quickie. “Me, too. Should we go into the naughtily named boba tea dealership?”
“Yes, though I should confess I’m not a tea person.”
“I’ll try not to hold that against you.” I yank open the door, then gesture for Evie to step inside.
She smiles appreciatively. “You are a throwback. Such a gentleman.”
“What kind of troglodyte wouldn’t hold a door for a woman?”
“You’d be surprised at the kind, type, and sheer volume of troglodytes alive and well today.” She pauses. “Also, just so you know, most women still appreciate when a man holds the door. So kudos to you. I’m only saying that since I’m sure the future Mrs. Dylan Parker will be grateful.”
“Good to know. But she’ll probably keep her name, don’t you think? I’m not sure she’ll want to be Mrs. Dylan Parker.”
“Touché. I’m impressed.”
“And I’m impressed with this absolutely stunning machine,” I say, taking a long look at the white, oval, tea-dispensing contraption parked against the wall.
Glass covers the top half, and inside it, two robotic arms wait to fulfill orders entered via a keypad. A guy with a hat that says Quickie on it is stationed at the counter, next to a sign for fruity tea. He’s likely the machine’s backup.
“Hey there,” I say.
The man narrows his eyes at me. “We kicked your ass last night.”
“Come again?”
Evie points to my head. “I suspect he means your Yankees.”
I pat my hat. “Oh yeah. Sorry. My sister told me not to wear it.” I yank it off, and instantly Evie reaches out a hand and brushes it over the ends of my hair. The gesture startles me but her hand on my hair feels good, too. I blink, trying to figure out why she’s touching me.
“Your sister is right. Hair this nice you don’t want to hide.” Ah, Evie is touching me in her friendly, matchmaker way.
I turn to the dude at the counter, and since he’s clearly a Mets fan, I promptly trash-talk the other NY team.
Evie says nothing as we trade zingers at each other, reminding me that she’s not into sports. And hey, it’s not a requirement that the future Mrs. Parker like sports, but it would sure be fun. After a debate on pitching, the guy gestures to the oval machine. “I should kick you out, but instead I’ll let you drink the city’s finest boba tea.”
I turn to the robotic tea dispenser and meet Evie’s eyes. Hers are blue, a shade like tropical waters. I’ve never noticed them before. Or maybe I’ve never looked so closely. “What type do I order? I’ve never tried it.”
“I’ve never tried it, either. Bit of a coffee snob,” she says, patting her chest.
“Bit of a tea snob. I should go for jasmine then as the base flavor.”
Her eyes light up, even brighter than before. “Ooh, and I should go for black tea, since that’s closest to coffee. No sugar—nothing that tastes like a shake.”
I shudder. “Neither coffee nor tea should ever taste like a shake.”
“Right? We already have milkshakes, and those are awesome enough.”
“Milkshakes are unequivocally awesome. We should get milkshakes next time,” I say, then I turn from her. Why am I suggesting a next time, as if we’re on a date?
I peruse the keypad and input our beverage details. A robotic arm whirs to life. It clunkily stretches and pushes a cup against a spout. Dark liquid fills the plastic cup, then the robot jerks ninety degrees and pushes against a lever. Boba tea balls shoot from a dispenser straw into the cup.
I nearly bounce on my toes as I snap cell phone shots. “It’s ridiculously cool.”
Evie flashes me a grin. “It is pretty cool.”
For a second, I hold her gaze. We might not have much in common, except in this moment we seem to share a bit of hot drink snobbery, as well as an appreciation for this fine machine. As I take the two plastic cups, I remind myself that it doesn’t matter what we have in common. She’s here to help me find a perfect match.
That’s why I refuse to check out her legs as she sits down in the booth.
I take my spot across from her and lift my plastic cup in a toast. “To trying new things,” I say.
“I’ll drink tea to that.”
“Speaking of new things, let’s cut to the chase. How does this whole deal work?”
“The one where I find you the love of your life?”
I laugh. “I was thinking the one where you save me from my socially clueless self. But yes, the love of my life works, too.”