He has asked me for a date. A non-business date. Not that last night was strictly business. Hah. But this time he’s clearly and openly interested in me as a woman. Not as an account or a colleague or a marketing coordinator.
The man bought me a corsage.
And now he’s offering chocolate-dipped strawberries and a voice that sounds like hot fudge?
Make me into a Shannon sundae. With a big old banana right in the—
“Hello?” He sounds slightly puzzled, but not unsure. Whatever he’s thinking, my craziness doesn’t deter him.
“Hi,” I say, the word coming out like a happy sigh. I look up to find Mom gawking at me like she can see my ovaries twitching, and Amanda’s doing that pretend-quiet thing where she’s acting like she’s not listening.
Even Chuckles’ ears are perked.
This is what it takes to get me to stand up and walk. My feet feel like they’re floating as I press the phone to my ear and hear Declan say, “I really enjoyed last night.”
All my pain fades. The world seems brighter, suddenly, like there was a layer of fog I couldn’t quite see. It’s gone, dashed away by Declan. This phone call is the highlight of my day so far.
And if he was serious about coming over on Friday…
“What time can I pick you up? And this time, no limo. Though I wouldn’t mind watching you split your skirt up nice and high,” he murmurs. The words make me hot, a steady pulse forming in my belly, throat, and between my legs. The man could talk me into an orgasm without touching me if he keeps this up.
Chuckles wanders over and begins rubbing against my legs. He’s purring. Chuckles doesn’t purr. Declan’s vocal magic is filling the room with pheromones even neutered cats react to.
How can a mere woman like me resist?
My back is turned to Mom and Amanda, who don’t take the hint. I thrash my arm back toward them in a gesture that clearly means Get out of here and let me have my hot-fudge voice orgasm, you twits.
“Are you having a seizure?” Mom asks, alarmed.
“I think she wants us to leave, Marie,” Amanda says. She’s back on my good list. Chuckles closes his eyes and the purring goes up a notch.
“Is this a bad time?’ Declan asks, a smile in his voice.
“It’s always a bad time when my mother is in the room,” I say, my voice definitely not full of chocolate or hot fudge or anything yummy. Mine feels like broken glass and rusty nails as Mom glares at me, clearly wanting to eavesdrop.
“And don’t let her listen outside the door!” I call back as Amanda shuts it. Mom’s groan can be heard by Declan, who gives a laugh so sensual it makes my toes curl.
“Now, where were we?” I ask in a voice half an octave lower and, I hope, as sexy as his.
“We were talking about how I want to come over and get to know you better, Shannon. All of you. Right now.”
My knees go weak and a buzzing flush fills the skin around them, a wave that crests upward and makes me wet and warm again. How does he do that? I’m trying to imagine him right now. Is he wearing a suit? A t-shirt and jeans? He’s so formal and businesslike, hot and sophisticated, that I can’t picture it.
“Right now?” I squeak out.
“Not practical, I know,” he says, the rumble in his tone like a caress. “Friday?”
“Friday works.” I don’t want to sound desperate, but I am free. Haven’t had a date on a Friday night in way too long. “Wear jeans,” I add.
I drool—just a little—at the thought of him in well-worn jeans, hiking boots, and a shirt so loved that it molds to all the edges and valleys in that muscled torso and chest of his. Sunglasses and a wicked grin, with a tan that speaks of time outside and…
“Are we giving each other wardrobe orders now?” His voice drops down into sultry territory, like his tongue is searching for a register you can only reach naked. “Because I have some preferences in that area, too.”
If I were wearing panties right now, they would melt off. Chuckles is making love to my ankles with his fur, and I shake him off. Too much sensation. Too many innuendoes. His purring is disconcerting, because it’s almost as if he’s…happy. Which is impossible. Chuckles’ default is misery. Declan would have to be a Time Lord to be that powerful.
“Yes?” I whisper. Preferences? Mmmmm.
“Hiking boots. And jeans, for certain. You want to wear layers, and bring something that handles wind.” His voice becomes pragmatic. Matter of fact. Friendly and cheerful. The change jolts me.
Wind?
“Wait—what?” This isn’t exactly what I thought he meant when he said wardrobe preferences. I am imagining red feather-lined handcuffs and crotchless panties. Not a catalog shoot for REI.
“I’m packing a picnic. There’s this great hiking spot in Sudbury I want to share with you.”
Chocolate-covered strawberries don’t exactly go together with Sudbury, which is a bedroom community outside of Boston best known for producing Chris Evans. Which isn’t too bad, I guess. If Captain America can come from there, maybe I can find my own superhero on a nice walk in the woods.
“At night?” Six p.m. doesn’t sound like an ideal time for a picnic. Maybe for mosquitoes to dine.
Steve’s idea of a “picnic date” involved eating at an outside table at Tavern in the Square in Cambridge, so this would be my first actual picnic date. Ever.
“There’s a meteor shower on Friday around nine. I thought it might be nice to try to catch some shooting stars.”
“That sounds really nice,” I say, meaning it. Starbursts behind my eyes would be nice, too.
“It will be,” he answers. We both pause. I hear him breathing, a light sound of surety that makes me feel connected. Ten seconds pass and I can feel him smiling. This is so unreal. Declan McCormick isn’t really interested in me, right? I’m klutzy Shannon, the woman he met when my hand was inside a toilet. A toilet! Yes, I had a reason for that. A good one. A professional one. But still.
Toilet Girl.
He’s asking Toilet Girl out on a date. An ominous feeling hits me.
What’s wrong with him? Maybe he’s a creepy stalker type who has a toilet fetish. He made the joke back in the men’s room, but if he was projecting his actual sexual kink onto me in a test to see if I’d freak out, and I didn’t, then maybe he’s got a thing for seeing women put their hands down toilets.
“Shannon?”
I want to ask him. The OCD part of my brain suddenly starts the rollercoaster-on-speed loop-de-loop it does when a new, panicky idea floods my mind. All I can think is “toilet fetish” over and over, and if I don’t exorcize this somehow, I’m going to blurt out the question Do you have a thing for women with their hands in toilets?