A taxi pulls up.
“Have fun with video game guy. And hey, you’re driving. So order a Diet Coke, okay?”
“Obviously. Diet Coke and me, we’re like this,” I say as I twist my index and middle fingers together.
She gives me a quick kiss and a hug, and then I return to where the evening started. When I walk back in Chris is sitting at the table in the corner, smiling at me. All my icky feelings fade.
Chapter Twelve
“So is this like an officially sanctioned date?” Chris asks playfully after the waitress brings us two Diet Cokes.
I press a finger to my lips. “Shh…”
“So this date is off the record then?”
“A secret date,” I whisper. “A secret business date with the first Trophy Husband candidate.”
“We don’t even know if I’ll make the cut.”
“You will so make the cut. How could you not?”
“The odds are one in four, McKenna. And that’s just for the first round, for the initial date.”
“You’ll get there. I’m not worried.”
“I guess I’m getting a leg up on the others right now.”
“You are indeed.”
“Speaking of legs up, I was thinking we should still probably shoot that promo.”
“Really? Why?”
“One, I have access to the studio and my videographer is on retainer with the network show so it won’t cost us anything. And two, it’s sort of like a fallback. What if I don’t make the cut?”
“You will!”
“But, just in case. And, even if I am one of the five, your viewers might not pick me for a second date. So, we’d have to resort to the old-fashioned way to keep promoting each other, with promos, know what I mean? Because I definitely think there are great synergies between our shows –”
I cut him off. “Did you actually just say synergies?”
He rolls his eyes, aware of his faux pas. “Fuck, I did.”
“That is like the ultimate corporate marketing term.”
“I know, I know. That is so embarrassing,” he says, then pauses. “But, it’s not nearly as embarrassing as you not having played Guitar Hero until two days ago. I mean, I had to teach you a game they don’t even make any more.”
“What can I say? I’m a throwback. I like vintage tees and old standards for music.”
“What’s your favorite old standard ever?”
“Ever? As in all time?”
“Well, yeah. That would be ever.”
“It’s totally cheesy. You’ll laugh.”
“Try me.”
I take a deep breath. “Can’t Help Falling in Love by Elvis.”
He doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and I tense. Have I scared him? Does he think that means I’m some crazy, clingy girl?
Then he leans into me, and presses his forehead against mine. He is so damn cute, it’s killing me. “That is an awesome song,” he says in a soft voice, and I can barely take it anymore, being this close to him. I want him to kiss me again so badly, it’s like an ache that longs to be soothed. I want him to run his hands in my hair, to pull me closer, to savor my lips on his. The desire to be near him is so overwhelming that it’s fogging my brain, and all I’m seeing, thinking, feeling is this wish to erase any distance between us. I have to pull away. If I stay any closer, I will fall into his arms, and God only knows what kind of hurt I’d be setting myself up for.
“So yeah, let’s shoot a promo this week,” I say, and like that – now you see it, now you don’t – I am back-to-business McKenna.
We spend the next fifteen minutes sketching out ideas, then we move on to other topics, trading tales from college, telling stories of favorite concerts we have been to. He loves live music and tells me he has been to 227 concerts in his life.
“You count?”
He nods proudly.
“You actually count?”
“I keep a piece of paper in my desk listing every concert I have ever been to.”
“Why?”
“It’s the engineer in me, McKenna. What can I say? I like to count, to keep track of things.”
“I so need to get a hold of that piece of paper.”
“And for that I am keeping my desk under lock and key when you come over.”
“Hey, where do you live? You never told me.”
“Russian Hill. Corner of Polk and Green.”
“I love that neighborhood. There is a great little kitschy gift shop a few blocks north on Polk Street where I got this ring,” I say, then hold out my right hand. A silver band with pink and white flowers etched on it is on my index finger. A half dozen thin black plastic bangles rattle a bit on my wrist. Chris reaches for my hand, gently touching the ring. His fingertips graze the top of my hand as he moves along from my finger to my wrist, touching my bracelets now. I am hypnotized with his touch, tugged into an orbit around him, because he is the focal point of my body and mind right now. His hands are strong and soft and they make my skin warm all over, as if I’ve been lying out in the sun, soaking in the delicious rays. He strokes the inside of my wrist so briefly, but enough for a tiny whimper to escape my lips as my mind flashes forward to other things he might be able to do with his hand. I press my thighs together, so I don’t grab his hands and test my theories.
“You know, McKenna,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along one of my bangles. For a second, I think he’s going to say something about my penchant for accessories. But instead, he kind of nods at my tee-shirt, at the crown hanging off the last letter in the name of the “Scottish Play.”
“You have cool tee-shirts.”
I laugh a little.
“I noticed that about you the first time I met you.”
“You did?” I ask, not in a questioning way, but to keep up the conversation.
“That time at the electronics store, the first thing I noticed was you were hot. The second thing I noticed was you were funny. The third thing I noticed was you were really cool. And the fourth thing I noticed was you had on this cool tee-shirt with a squirrel waterskiing on it. I like a chick with a good tee-shirt collection.”
I smile. Or maybe I beam. Because I don’t know which of those four things I like better – being thought of as hot, funny, cool or stylish. I like them all, for different reasons, but I have to say he saved the best for last. He likes my tee-shirts, he likes my style. He likes what makes me me, and that’s enough for me to feel totally under his spell, body and heart.