Who is this bold woman inhabiting me? This woman hasn’t come out to play at night like this in some time. But this daring woman is me. This is how I am at work, and it’s thrilling to be this way with a guy too. To be direct, to tell him what I like.
That voice of worldly wisdom chimes in.
Don’t be afraid to go after what you want.
Oh yes, Mama, I am going after it. I don’t need a man, but do I ever want this one.
He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Would you like to just go home with me right now?” He’s laughing, but I can tell he means it. I can tell, too, that he’s not pressuring me—that he’s simply putting his cards on the table, and I like that.
But while I kind of do want to go home with him, I’m not ready to strut out of here yet to do the horizontal tango. “Why don’t we have that drink first, and maybe a little later you can ask me that question again?” Gently, I kick the toe of my knee-high boot against his leg, exposing more of my thigh thanks to my short skirt. “We’ll see if you still get the answer I would have given you now.”
He mimes grabbing a pencil, writing something down. “Note to self: ask Bryn a very important question in a little while,” he mutters as if to himself.
I set my chin in my hand, and I meet honesty with honesty. “I told my friends about you too.”
The corner of his lips curves up. “Is that so?”
“One of them called you Mr. Lunch Box.”
He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nicknames are good.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t know your real name. We had to call you something.”
“Fair enough. We called you Snoopy Lover. That was my sister’s nickname for you.”
I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit. “I like that you told them about me.”
“It didn’t take much for me to serve it all up. They knew the whole tale an hour or so after I met you.”
“You mean, right after we nearly pummeled each other for the lunch box?”
He shoots me a wry grin. “You did look like you’d be fierce in a fight.”
“I’m terrifying.” I hiss and brandish my nails as if they’re claws. “I’d have broken out all my street-fighting skills to take you down.”
He shrugs playfully. “I probably wouldn’t have objected to that. What other fighting styles do you know, just so I’m prepared?”
I press my finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t be silly. A woman doesn’t give up all of her secrets. But yes, I do have my arsenal. And maybe someday I’ll tell you which ones.”
“First off, I love that you can fight. Second, I’m glad you didn’t try to take me down, because those boots are sexy as sin but look lethal as hell, and third, I’m psyched that my buds called me pathetic and made me get on the app, because I’m having a great time with you tonight.”
Those tingles? They sweep faster through me. They race along my skin. “Me too, Logan. Me too.”
He scrapes a hand across his jaw, his expression a bit nervous. Or maybe it’s not nerves, but a sense of freedom from this unbridled honesty. “You posting on Made Connections. Me posting on it. It’s sort of . . .”
“Kismet?”
A smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. It does feel a little like kismet.”
The click of shoes echoes across the floor as the server returns. She sets down two drinks, a sprig of mint in each one. “And here are your Plot Twists. Enjoy.”
When she leaves, Logan lifts his glass, and I do the same.
“To moments,” he says. “To moments that might lead to more moments.”
The tingles inside me multiply once more. “And to not missing them.”
I take a sip, and my taste buds bow down and thank me for ordering this delicious drink. I actually moan out loud. “Mmm, that is delish.” I lick the corner of my lips, and when my eyes lock with his, I see that he’s watching me, his irises darkening.
“Yes, delicious,” he says, his voice a little hazy.
I don’t think he’s talking about the drink. I think he’s talking about the way my tongue just teased the corner of my mouth.
A part of me wants to end this date right now and cut to the next part of the night.
But I also don’t want to miss the dance. The fox-trot to the bedroom, if that’s where we’re going, should be danced to completion. “So, how did the lunch box go over?”
He gives a thumbs-up. “I’m dad of the year.”
“Excellent,” I say, taking another drink. “And she’s seven?”
He nods. “Yes, I’m divorced, and have been for two years.”
“Good to know. Because sometimes a guy says he is and then you meet him and it turns out, oh, he’s actually ‘separated.’ But by ‘separated,’ he means still living in the same house with his wife.”
Logan recoils. “That is not at all separated. That’s more like dating while deceiving.”
I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”
