Well, Helix knows how to shut two people up real quick.
After we both put in an order for the meatloaf and mashed potatoes—I’m ignoring the fact that we ordered the same thing, thank you very much—Helix took off down the stairs, but not before telling us that the kitchen is short-staffed so the meal might take a bit longer to come out.
Just . . . great. Wonder if that’s intentional so “dates” have to stay longer.
An instrumental cover of Bad Guy plays overhead as JP and I look everywhere but at each other.
Helix brought in the truth bomb and completely obliterated the evening.
Even the nonstop annoyance from JP has shut down as he twirls his water glass on the table.
The silence is deafening.
Uncomfortable.
And even though I can’t stand sitting across from him at the moment, I can’t handle the silence. It’s more painful than not talking.
“So . . . do you often eat meatloaf?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
When he looks up, his brow lifts in this Regé-Jean Page sort of way, like a fishhook grabbed it, tugged it up, and left it there. And does it take me straight back to a scene in Bridgerton that had me melting into my couch? Of course, but does it ease the protective ice shield that has formed around me because of this unfortunate evening? Not even a little.
“Are you attempting conversation with me?”
“You can’t possibly expect me to sit here in silence for God knows how long.”
“I don’t know, watching you squirm from a lack of conversation seems enjoyable.”
“Why are you an ass?”
“Couldn’t you tell from the rundown Helix just gave us? Abandonment issues and false façades are high on that list for defense mechanisms. Doesn’t take a psychologist to figure that out, babe,” he says.
“Doesn’t give you an excuse to act like an asshole. I grew up without a dad and you don’t see me parading around with an indignant attitude.”
He laughs so loud it startles me backward. “Did you completely forget the ‘I hate JP Cane’ one-person show you just put on for the restaurant staff?”
“Well, pardon me for being flummoxed when I found out you were my date for the evening. In my head, I was picturing this night going a tad differently.”
“I see. And how did you picture it going?”
I take a sip of my water. “Not like this.”
“You said that, and given we have a long dinner in front of us, why don’t you educate me on how you thought tonight would pan out?”
“I’m not sharing that with you. You’re just going to make fun of me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re an oppressor of hopes and dreams.”
“How little you know me, Kelsey.”
I eye him for a few seconds and then ask, “So if I tell you what I thought would happen tonight, you’re not going to make fun of me?”
“You know, it might behoove you to get to know me. Then you might not have such a low opinion of me.”
Doubtful.
“Fine,” I say, chin held high. “But if you make fun of me, I’m throwing my water in your face.”
“That’s fair.” He nods at me. “Go ahead, light me up with your fantasies.”
God, I really despise him.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Well, I signed up for this program because I heard great things about it from Noely Clark.”
“Noely, one of the hosts from Good Morning, Malibu?” he asks.
“Yes. I interviewed her and her husband for my podcast—”
“You have a podcast? What’s it called?”
Feeling shy, because I know he’s probably judging me, I say, “I do, and the name is irrelevant. I would rather you not listen to it.”
“Afraid I might become a long-time listener?”
“Are you teasing me?” I ask, lifting my water.
He holds up his rather large hands. “No, not teasing. Just engaging in conversation.”
“Try using less sarcasm in your ‘engagements.’”
“Noted.” He gestures with his hand. “Proceed.”
“Well, I interviewed them for my podcast and while we weren’t recording, she told me all about Going in Blind. Since I’m in the market to settle down with someone . . .” I pause to assess his expression, and when he doesn’t crack a smile, I proceed. “I thought I’d give it a try. I heard nothing but good things, so when I was getting ready, I was actually kind of nervous. I assumed I’d be meeting someone interesting, someone like-minded, someone I matched well with. You can only imagine my disappointment when you turned out to be ManWearsPants.”
He lifts his glass casually and, with his eyes locked in a deep stare on me, takes a sip of water. There’s something enigmatic but also annoying about the Cane men. They have excellent self-control, particularly at curbing their initial reactions to things. They’re generally subtle with their movements, showing great restraint. I’ve seen it in Huxley and now in JP.
“Disappointment, indeed,” he says. “I’m sorry if I’ve ruined your evening.”
“Ugh, don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?” he asks, remaining stoic.
“Play the bruised ego card. You and I both know there’s nothing about this scenario that hurts your feelings. You’re thriving off the fact that we were matched merely because it’s ruined my evening and hopes for a possible match.”
“I don’t thrive off that,” he says. “I find it somewhat comical, sure, but I do kind of feel bad for you.”
“I don’t need you feeling bad for me. Save your pity for someone else.”
“I don’t pity you. There’s a difference. If I pitied you, then that would mean I have a low opinion of you, and that’s not the case. I just feel bad that you consider your evening ruined by my presence.”
“Why do you have to say it like that? Like you’re the victim.”
“Trust me, babe, I’m never the victim.” He shifts in his chair, and I can tell the easygoing, teasing JP is gone—especially since Helix laid out our backgrounds for each other—and in his place is a guarded man, one I haven’t seen before.
“I was just expecting something else,” I say, folding my hands in my lap. “I was excited to meet someone new.”
Once again, JP studies me, intent, his eyes blazing over me, practically eating me alive as they roam from my eyes to my mouth, to my chest . . .
Finally, he says, “I’m here because of a bet.”
My gaze flashes to his. “What?”
He holds up his hand to calm my simmering rage. “Before you think I intentionally came here to ruin your night, that’s not the case. The fact that we’re here together, sharing a meal, is pure coincidence. But the reason I signed up for this program is because I lost a bet to Breaker.”
“What kind of bet?”
“We were playing one-on-one basketball. Our egos got the best of us and we decided whoever lost had to follow through on whatever the other person chose. It was a tied game. I was ready to force Breaker to go to some baking class I knew he’d absolutely hate, and he apparently had plans for me to do this. I lost, he told me what I had to do, and here I am.”
“So, you’re here because you lost a bet?”
“Yes.”
“What if your date wasn’t me? What would you have done then?”
“Attempted to enjoy the evening. Not sure where your disdainful opinion of me started, but I’m a pretty good guy. Sure, the thought of not following through on the date tonight did cross my mind, but I knew I couldn’t do that. So, my plan was to try to strike up conversation, enjoy a meal, then end the night with a wave. I planned to spend the rest of the evening in my pool, naked on a raft, staring up at the stars.”
My treacherous mind conjures up an image of just that, JP naked on a raft, floating in a pool, his wild tattoos on display.
It’s, uh . . . it’s a pleasant visual.
“But now I’m here with you, suffering through this conversation and begging the kitchen staff to hurry up with my meal so I can go back to my house.” He smirks and asks, “What do you plan on doing after this?”
Asking Lottie where Huxley got that new “toy” so I can ease the tension that has built in my shoulders from this evening.
“Probably folding and ironing laundry while watching a new romcom on Netflix.”
“Let me guess—it’s a flick about two people meeting, falling madly in love, then the guy does something stupid, the girl gets mad, they break up only for him to make a grand gesture to win back her hand, and then it’s sealed with a happily ever after.”
Chin held high, I say, “If you must know, yes, that would be the general idea.”
He snorts. “You really believe life is like that?”
“I’d like to believe there’s some validity to those stories. If anything, they give me hope for the kind of life I could have.”
“They’re far-fetched fiction. Life doesn’t revolve around the movie star falling in love with the lonesome construction worker and giving up everything to live in a quirky town.”
“You know, JP, just because your life doesn’t work that way, doesn’t mean others don’t. Look at Lottie and Huxley, for instance. Their love story reads heavily like a romantic comedy, with all the twists and turns that a passionate love affair can offer.”
“They ran into each other on the sidewalk and struck up a deal to help each other. That doesn’t really scream romance to me.”
“It’s a classic trope.”
“A what?” he asks, his face twisting in confusion.
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes, girding myself to educate this man on the simple pleasures of the romance community. “A trope is a plot or theme that helps tell a story. For instance, if I were to label Huxley and Lottie’s romance, I would easily call it ‘enemies to lovers’ since they hated each other, with a smattering of ‘fake fiancée’ and a touch of ‘billionaire.’ All wildly popular.”
“Billionaire is a trope?” Both his brows raise now in suspicion.
“A very popular one.”
“So, let me get this straight—you think that your life is going to be some sort of romcom with these tropes?”
“No, but I was hoping for better company than the one currently present,” I snap at him, taking another sip of my water.
“What’s wrong with the present company? We’re having a healthy conversation.”
“This is what you consider healthy? I’m on the verge of either shooting my water up your nose or roundhouse kicking you to the ground. How does that scream healthy conversation?”
His lips press together and then after he casually leans back in his chair again, he says, “Seems to me like you need to go to some anger management classes.”
I wonder if I can get away with forking JP to death.
“THAT’S THE DUMBEST MOVIE EVER.”
“Excuse me?” I ask, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. The audacity of the man.
“You’re telling me, out of all the movies in the entire world, your all-time favorite, the one you can watch over and over again is Sleepless in Seattle?”
“Yes. When Harry Met Sally is a close second.”
“Meg Ryan fan, are we?”
“How can you not be a fan of her delightful charm?”
“I mean, she’s fine, but I’m not going to seek out a movie because she’s in it.”
“Well, you should. Maybe you could learn something from watching her movies, become more desirable to be around.”
He smooths his hand over his jaw and says, “Haven’t had any complaints about my company being desirable.”
I roll my eyes and, because our food still hasn’t arrived, I ask, “So, what makes Sleepless in Seattle so far beneath you?”
“It’s unbelievable.”
“How so?” I ask in shock.
“Well, besides the fact that a child not only purchased a plane ticket by himself, but he flew across the country with no parental guidance, found his way to the Empire State Building, and reached the top without one person questioning him? Yeah, that would never happen. But also, because Meg Ryan is a clear stalker in this movie.”
“She’s not a stalker. She’s merely curious.”
“Be curious about your neighbor, not some questionable father all the way across the country.”
“His story touched her.”
“He’s a forlorn father trying to find some ass through a radio show.” JP claps. “Job well done, Tom Hanks. You were able to sweep lonely and desperate women off their feet from miles away.”
“Oh my God, you’re . . . you’re gross.”
“Gross?” he asks, his hand landing on the table. “How am I the gross one? I’m not chasing tail across the country, using my son as bait.”
“Um, Sam Baldwin had no idea that’s what was happening. If you recall, he was absolutely distraught over his son’s disappearance.”
“Okay, sure, he pulled his hand from under his woman’s shirt long enough to realize his son was missing. Great parenting. But put all of that aside, and you really think they would’ve fallen for each other? They caught one glimpse of each other and then all of a sudden, they were at the top of the Empire State Building, and in love? There’s absolutely no believability to their relationship. If that movie had an epilogue, it would show them awkwardly realizing the next morning that they live over three thousand miles apart, he lives on a houseboat, and they have absolutely nothing in common other than idiotic spontaneity.”
I stare at him, my body thrumming with irritation. The back of my neck feels like it’s on fire, my palms are so sweaty I have to restrain myself from wiping them on my dress, and my jaw is clenched so tight that my cheeks are hurting.
“Are you done ripping apart my favorite movie?”
“I think so.” He smiles.
“Good. Now, Rotten Tomatoes, tell me your favorite movie.”
“Why, so you can pretend you don’t like it and attempt to give it the tongue-lashing I just unleashed on your favorite movie? I’m good, thanks.”
“How do you know I’m going to be negative about your favorite movie? I might like it.”
“How do I know you’re going to be negative? Because for the past five minutes, I’ve watched you mentally plot my death. My guess is when we’re done with this dinner, you’re going to push me down the stairs on our way out, tumbling me into a coma.”
Wrong. It involves a solid twenty minutes of forking . . . and not the sexual kind!
“You know, if I’m going to get caught, planting my knife in your chest might be more satisfactory.”
“Jesus,” he says, horrified.
Embarrassment falls over me. The knife might have gone a bit too far. “You’re right, that was uncalled for. I think the trip down the stairs is more my style.”
He chuckles. “Glad I don’t have to whisk your knife away when you’re not looking.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. I don’t look good in orange. Committing a crime is not for me.”
“So orange is not the new black for you?”
“No.” I cross my leg over the other and ask, “So, what’s your favorite movie? You owe me this much.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“JP, this has been an uneventful evening that I’m begging to end and you’ve made it that much more unbearable. Please, delight me with your nonsensical movie choice. Or I’m going to start guessing.”
“That sounds more appealing. Start guessing.”
Heaving a heavy sigh, I compose myself and ask, “Is it porn?”
“Come on, I have more class than that.”
“Debatable, but I’ll rule that out just for now. Hmm.” I make a show of tapping my chin. “Based on your disdain for romantic comedies, I’m going to lean more toward some blood-and-gore action flick. And since you try to hold the high-and-mighty card, I’m going to guess your favorite movie is something like Braveheart.”
“Nope.” He shakes his head.
“The Godfather?”
“Not even close.”
“Eww, is it Rocky?”
“That would be laughable.”
I fold my arms and really study him. “Umm, Saving Private Ryan, The Green Mile, Philadelphia.”
“Are you just guessing Tom Hanks movies now?”
“Just checking, seeing if any of those sparked any interest. I can see that they didn’t. So now I’m going to go the less prolific route and say Step Brothers, 40-Year-Old Virgin, Billy Madison.”
“All funny, but no.”
“Ugh, I don’t know. Give me a hint. Who stars in it?”
“Julie Andrews.”
“Julie—what? Julie Andrews as in Mary Poppins Julie Andrews?”
He nods.
“You’re messing with me.”
“No. What’s wrong with Julie Andrews?”
“Nothing, I just . . . I don’t know, I was thinking you were going to say someone like Liam Neeson, Sam Elliott, or Jeff Bridges. You know, all rough and gruff, ready-to-seek-revenge actors. Not Julie Andrews, with her blonde pixie haircut.”
“What little you know of me.”
“You’re not kidding, your favorite movie has Julie Andrews in it?”
“Yup.” He smirks.
“What is it?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“Not even in the slightest. It’s truly more confusing than anything. So, I’m at a loss. The only Julie Andrews movies coming to mind are, well, Mary Poppins and The Princess Diaries and I think I’ll fall out of my chair if any of those are the answer.”
“Nope, neither of those classics.”
“You’ve watched both of them?” I ask, still in disbelief. This is a side of JP I never expected. He’s one of three brothers.
“Of course I have. Mary Poppins is wholesome, and I once dated this girl who was obsessed with Anne Hathaway and made me watch every movie of hers. The Devil Wears Prada was a complete nightmare, by the way. What kind of shit ending was that?”
“I thought you didn’t like romantic comedies?”
“I don’t, and that movie is one of the main reasons.”
“Okay, so if it’s not one of those . . . what is it?” I laugh. “Can’t possibly be The Sound of Music.”
“Why do you assume that?” he asks, looking entirely too serious.
No.
That can’t be it.
The Sound of Music? No freaking way.
“Uh, because it’s a musical and, excuse me if I’m wrong, I don’t really see you as a toe-tapping, musical kind of man.”
“You know, you really shouldn’t judge people based on the little knowledge you have of them.” He adjusts the cuffs on his sleeves and says, “For your information, The Sound of Music is my favorite movie. It has everything you need, a hot nanny ex-nun who can sing, a grumpy, Nazi-fighting hero, beautifully composed music, betrayal, and suspense.”
I’m stunned.
In disbelief.
Sure, it’s an okay movie, but a favorite?
“Why don’t I believe you?”
He shrugs. “That’s on you if you choose to believe me or not.”
“If I had my phone, I would text Huxley right now and see if that’s the truth.”
“When you get your phone, have at it. He knows I love watching Maria twirl around on a mountaintop. One year, for Halloween, I dressed up as Maria, and another year, I was Baron Von Trapp. And then Maria again, because the costume was too good to only wear once.”
“I still . . . I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself. But I’ll tell you this, I own the cassette tape, the CD, the VHS, the DVR, the Blu Ray, and a digital copy of The Sound of Music. Not to mention, I have a treasured signed autograph picture from Julie Andrews. I keep them all in a fireproof safe in my house in an undisclosed location.”
“Okay, now I know you’re lying.”
He just shrugs, which is such an infuriating response. It’s like he doesn’t even care enough to come up with something proper, just offers a know-it-all shrug.
And, no, I don’t believe him, not for one second. There’s no way after the prolific criticism he had about Sleepless in Seattle that he can sit back and say The Sound of Music—a love story in its own right—is his favorite movie. Nope, he’s just trying to provoke me and I’m not going to fall for it.
Nice try.
“Doe, a deer, a female deer—”
“Will you knock that off?” I ask as our food finally arrives. “God, just eat your food and be quiet so we can get the hell out of here.”
“Aren’t you a pleasant dinner companion?”
“You’ve been nonstop singing, humming, beat-bopping songs since you brought up The Sound of Music and I’m about to lose my mind. I’m going to have ‘How do you solve a problem like Maria?’ stuck in my head for eternity.”
“Could be worse.”
“How could it be worse?” I ask.
“Could be a completely inappropriate song. Something along the lines of . . .” He leans forward and in a seductive voice, says, “My neck, my back, lick—”
“Okay, I got your point,” I say, holding my hand up.
“Have you heard that one?”
“Everyone has heard that one,” I say while sticking a forkful of meatloaf into my mouth. The most delicious meatloaf I’ve ever had. So good that I would actually consider coming on another date with JP just to have this meatloaf . . . Yeah, suffer through another night of this, that’s how good it is.
“Have you ever entertained such an adventure as that song suggests?”
My cheeks heat up immediately as I stare at the swirl of garlic in my mashed potatoes. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“It’s not, but we have to kill the time somehow, so I’m going to assume from your bothered answer, that would be a no.”
“As if you’ve done something like that.”
He delivers that rakish brow once more. He doesn’t have to say anything, that one expression says it all. He has licked from well, you know . . .
“I’ve done pretty much everything, Kelsey, and I’ve delivered . . . every single time.”
“Uh-huh, I’m sure,” I say sarcastically.
Ignoring me, he continues, “I always make sure my girl comes, even if I don’t.”
“That’s great.” I offer him a closed-mouth smile.
“I’ve even faked it a time or two, just to get the hell out of there, you know?”
My fork pauses midway to my mouth as I look over our water glasses and right at his smirking face. “There’s no way you fake it. You can’t fake sperm.”
“Girls don’t check the condom, unless that’s something you do.”
“Eww, no, gross. Please change the subject, I hardly see how this is an appetizing conversation.”
“Sex is always an appetizing conversation.”
“Yes, well, not the details of you acting like you fake it and what’s in or not in your condom.”
“I’m not acting like I fake it . . . I do.”
“Okay, JP.” I give him a thumbs up. “Good for you on your accomplishments.”
His lips quirk to the side before he lifts his fork to his mouth. That’s right, eat up so we can get the hell out of here. Honestly, conversation with this man has been one failure after another. I felt hope with the movie topic, but that burned down really quickly with him tearing apart Sleepless in Seattle. And I would never admit this to him, but now I’m wondering . . . how was that boy able to just fly across the country like that?
“Fuck,” JP whispers as he grips the edge of the table. His fork is resting on his plate and his head is down as if he just hurt himself.
And because I’m the person that I am, I ask, “Are you okay?”
He lifts his head slightly so I can see his teeth roll over the bottom of his lip. “Mmm,” he groans.
“Did you bite your lip? You know, I do that sometimes. It might develop into a canker sore, so be mentally prepared for that.”
His head falls all the way back now as he leans backward in his chair, hands still on the edge of the table while he man spreads. “Fuck . . . yes.”
Wait, hold on. What is happening?
He shifts and clenches his fist as he wets his lips. “Yes, baby, right there . . . mmm, you feel so good.”
My expression falls.
My nostrils flare.
I fold my arms over my chest.
Could he be any more immature?
“Are you really doing this? Are you really doing the scene from When Harry Met Sally?” I ask.
“Fuck. That mouth of yours. Yes, suck me deep.”
Oh dear God.
My face flames as I lean forward and tap the table. “Hey, yoo-hoo, you can stop that now. I get your point.”
But he doesn’t stop. Not even a little.
Nope, he continues to moan, to groan, to bite on his lip . . . move his hips.
“Yes, baby, your pussy is so fucking good. Uhhhhh, yes, fuck, I need to pump harder.”
“No, no, that’s okay, no pumping necessary,” I say, but my mind starts to visualize and my neck starts to sweat.
You are NOT getting horny from this, you ARE NOT!
“Shit . . .” He slams his fist on the table and I watch in absolute horror—and secret suspense—as he moves closer to the table, his eyes still shut, his head bent down. “You’re going to come, I can feel it, but not yet, not until I tell you,” he groans.
I wet my lips.
Cross my legs.
Look away, only for my eyes to look back at him.
His hand reaches out and grips his cloth napkin. He crumples it in his fist. “Not yet, baby, don’t you fucking come, not until I give you permission.” His head falls back briefly. “Ahh, fuck, good girl. Hold it.”
I lightly pat around the base of my neck with my napkin when he’s not looking. Did they turn off the AC or something? What’s with the pressure cooker up here?
“Jesus, your pussy is so good, so good. Yes, fuck me like that. Keep going, baby.” He slams his fist on the table again and groans so loudly that it feels like a gallon of lava is pouring down my spine.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to distract myself, but it’s no use. A dull throb pulses between my legs, my palms are sweating, and my gaze doesn’t leave him as he grips the knife in front of him, pounds it into the table, and moans so loud, I KNOW the people below us are wondering what the hell is going on.
“Mother . . . fucker,” he shouts. “Come, baby, come on my greedy cock.” And then . . . he grinds down on his teeth, his neck veins bulge, and the most guttural sound falls past his lips.
Oh.
My.
God.
My tongue tingles. My cheeks are on fire. A light sweat glistens on my forehead. Did he actually just come? Because . . . I mean, that was so convincing, so sexy, so—
“Uh, everything okay up here?” Helix asks from the stairs, startling me right out of my chair and onto the floor with a loud plop.
Jesus Christ, Kelsey, get up.
Humiliation consumes me while I scramble to my feet, press down on my dress, and straighten my spine. “Yes!” I shout. “Everything is . . . yes. We’re fine. Nothing going on up here. Just, uh, chatting and whatnot. No need to worry about us. Yup. Nothing freaky happening.”
I glance over at JP, who’s smirking, fork in hand with a giant piece of meatloaf on the tines. He tips the fork to Helix and says, “My compliments to the chef.” And then he takes a bite.
Meanwhile, my randy and ready body is over here, sending an SOS to the universe, saying, “I’ll have what HE’S having.”
“ARE you really not going to talk to me for the rest of the evening?”
Whispering, I ask, “Do you realize how embarrassing that was?”
“Yeah, really embarrassing for you. Helix saw you turned on, nipples hard, ready to go. Not sure if he was ready for that.”
“I was NOT turned on,” I say, even though I think we all know that’s a complete lie. “You’re acting like a child.”
“Or am I just trying to loosen you up? Christ, woman, take a chill pill.”
“Don’t tell me to loosen up. I’ll loosen up when I want to loosen up.”
He nods, lips locked in a way that communicates exactly what he’s thinking—she’s crazy.
“Well, guess what, I’m only crazy because you’re making me crazy.”
His brow pulls together. “What?”
Wait . . . huh?
“I didn’t say you were crazy.”
“Then what did you say?”
“Nothing.” He raises his glass. “But now I’m thinking you’re crazy.”
I groan and rest my arms on the table, crossing them in front of me. “Ugh, this night will never end.”
“Instead of complaining about it, you could ask me another question, you know?”
“That doesn’t sound appealing.”
“Fine, I’ll ask you a question.” He clears his throat obnoxiously. “So, tell me, Kelsey, what are you looking for in a man?”
“Not you.”
“Your flushed cheeks from moments ago beg to differ.”
I swear I feel steam blow out my nose.
Smirking, he adds, “You know, we can either sit here in silence, which I know makes you more uncomfortable and chattier and will cause you to divulge information you probably don’t want me knowing. Or, you can control your babbling by answering a simple question.”
Why is he right?
Just add it to the list of infuriating things about the man.
“Ask me something else.”
“Okay, what do you find attractive in a man?”
I roll my eyes heavily. “Let me guess—if I don’t answer this question, you will find one eerily similar to ask?”
He grins. “Yes, and I’ll keep going from there.”
I dab at my mouth with my napkin and then set it back in my lap. “Fine, you want to know what I want in a man? Well, firstly, someone who doesn’t annoy me, secondly, someone who doesn’t purposefully lie—”
He slides his hand on the table and says, “Kelsey, from the tone of your voice, it almost seems like you’re suggesting that I annoy you and purposefully lie.”
“How did you ever figure that out? Wow, JP, you’re a genius.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re ripe tonight. You’ve always been decently chill, but tonight, you’re on another level.”
I set my napkin on the table and fold my arms as I lean back. “Yes, because I thought tonight was going to be different. I thought . . .” In a wistful tone, I continue, “I thought I was going to meet someone I could actually date. I thought this was the start of something new, something exciting. I was excited to go on a date, but that’s not what tonight has been. It’s been disappointing, and a giant ball of irritation. So, excuse me if I’m not the delightful company you expected.”
“You’re really not. I might ask for a refund. Hypercritical fishwife isn’t what I call a good first date or a match, for that matter.”
“Fishwife?” I ask.
“Yup. Already called you a shrew, thought fishwife would be a good second option.”
“Yeah . . . well, you’re a . . . you’re a . . .”
“A what?” he asks, his grin growing even wider.
Think, Kelsey, think of a good name.
“A shortsighted boob.”
He tosses his head back, laughter erupting from his lips. “That’s the best you could come up with? A shortsighted boob? Shit.” He wipes at his eyes as I grow more furious by the second. “I think I might get that printed on a T-shirt. You’re a shortsighted boob. Jesus, that’s good.”
I stare at him as he continues to laugh, then chuckle, then laugh again, and when he finally calms himself down, I ask, “Are you finished?”
“I think so.” He gives his eyes one more swipe. “Oh man, any more of those golden insults you have stored away?”
“I don’t know. Do you have any other names to call me other than fishwife?”
“Sure do . . . uptight gorgon.”
What the hell is a gorgon? Doesn’t matter, it’s a hideous name, doesn’t fall off the tongue.
And to hell if I’m going to let him get away with calling me . . . that.
My eyes narrow. “Half-cracked ignoramus.”
“Fastidious wench.”
My jaw clenches. “Cynical ninny.”
He cracks a smile. “Pretentious strumpet.”
The sound of Helix climbing the stairs momentarily distracts me before I say, “Callous cockhead.”
Now he’s full-on smiling. “Simpering concubine.”
“Strumpet and concubine would allude to me being loose with my legs and I can guarantee you right now, there’s nothing loose about my appendages.”
“Uh . . . everything okay?” Helix asks, stepping up to the table.
“Maybe you should be loose, have someone fish that pole out of your ass that you seem to be clenching.” JP crosses his arms, looking like the casual butthole that he is.
“Would you guys like the check?” Helix asks.
“So, I have a pole up my ass because I’m not fainting at your feet over your nonsensical drivel and squawky singing?”
“Squawky?” JP asks, insulted. “Try again. There’s nothing squawky about my singing.”
“Yeah, I’ll just, uh, go grab that check. I’m thinking dessert isn’t a thing tonight.” Helix takes off while JP and I share an unwavering stare down.
“I’ve heard cats in heat sound better than what I’ve had to suffer through tonight.”
“You’re so full of shit.” He tosses his napkin on the table. “I saw you bobbing your head.”
“Oh, you’re cute thinking that was bobbing, more like twitching from how horrendous you sounded. You sure know how to make someone’s muscles fire off in revolt.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? Because it’s not.”
I clutch at my chest. “Have I hurt your man feelings?”
Helix approaches again and sets the check on the table. Both of us reach for it at the same time.
“Let go,” JP says.
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you pay for this meal,” I counter. He might have ruined this night, and I’ll forever have “Doe, a deer” stuck in my freaking head, but to hell if I’m going to let him pay.
Ohhhhh no.
“Over my dead and squawking body will I let you pay.”
“Here are your phones,” Helix says, sounding nervous. He should be. Shots have been fired, our voices are raised, we’re engaging in the stare down of a lifetime, and with one wrong move, this powder keg of a date will explode. “I’ll just set them down here.” He slowly places the phones on the table, careful not to disrupt anything, and then cautiously backs away.
Smart, smart man.
“Fine.” I let go of the check but reach into my purse to pull out a few twenties. I set them on the table. “There, paid my half.”
“Pick that fucking money up right now. You’re not paying.”
“Why not? I can afford it. Your brother pays me pretty well.”
“This isn’t a money thing.”
“Then what is it?” I counter. “A pride thing?”
“Yeah, I always pay for a goddamn meal when I take someone out on a date.”
“Well, you didn’t take me out on a date, as this was an unfortunate coincidence. This was a loathsome, mind-numbingly pitiful tryst. Trust me, if this was a real date, it would not have gone like this.”
“If this was a real date, I would’ve bent you over this table and spanked your ass for the way you’ve spoken to me.”
My eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He picks up my twenties and stuffs them into his pocket before pulling out two, one-hundred-dollar bills and dropping them on the table. There’s no way dinner cost that much. Not even close.
Always trying to show off. Ugh, pretentious prick.
Everyone, please offer JP applause: he has money, good for him. Clearly, he wants to make a show of it.
But back to what he said. “That’s outrageous behavior. No one spanks women these days.”
He stands from the table and buttons his suit jacket. “Clearly you haven’t been with the right men.”
He walks over to me and holds out his hand to help me up from my chair. I smack his hand away and stand myself.
“I’ve been with perfect gentlemen, thank you very much.”
“And there’s your problem,” JP says, leaning in. “A perfect gentleman isn’t going to make you come the way I can.”
He’s so close I can practically feel the heat coming off his body. It warms me and simmers at the base of my stomach, causing a flash of heat to pulse through my body for a mere second, reminding me of that initial attraction on the day I met him. But just as fast as it arrives, it flits away.
“Don’t flatter yourself, JP.” I start to walk past him, but once again, just like in the conference room, he pauses me with a hand on my hip. He leans in close to my ear.
“I don’t need to flatter myself when it’s facts. If you were in my bed, you’d forget your name, your cunt would be begging for my cock, and your voice would be hoarse from crying out my name repeatedly.”
I hate to admit it, but I can see it.
I can feel it.
What it would be like in his bed, him hovering over me.
He’s demanding.
Controlling.
Doesn’t let up until every last inch of my body has nothing left to give.
Even whispered, there’s demand in his voice and, I can feel how it would be.
But that doesn’t mean I want it.
There’s a difference between romance and good sex. Good sex lasts a night, while romance lasts a lifetime.
But before I can respond, he steps away from me. We both make our way down the stairs, my legs wobblier than expected.
We bypass the hostess, who asks us how our dinner was, JP holds the door open for me, and when we’re both on the sidewalk, JP closes the distance between us and puts his hand on my hip once again.
“Tonight was an absolute succubus of valuable time. I hope it never happens again.”
“You and me both,” I say, holding my head high. “You were unpleasant and a self-assured ass. I would rather stick my head in a gas station toilet than go on another date with you.”
“The pleasure was not mine, babe. Hope you come down with a bad case of the toots later.”
I gasp and look him in the eye as he smiles. “Yeah, well . . . I hope your penis gets stuck in your zipper.” I make a step to walk away when he grips my wrist, brings it to his lips, and to my horror, places a kiss just on the inside of my wrist. His lips pause for only a breath, but it’s just enough time to cause my stomach to flip-flop, a demoralizing feeling.
No, body, we don’t like him.
Don’t you dare get sucked in by his flippant charm.
“If only my penis got stuck between your legs instead.” He lets go of my wrist. “Don’t trip on your way home.”
And then with one hand in his pocket, he takes off in the opposite direction, swagger in every step.
God, he’s infuriating.
“Hope to see you never,” I call out, for unknown reasons. Because I will see him again, in the office, because that’s the kind of luck I have.
Sighing, I reach into my purse for my phone so I can call an Uber when my hand connects with some paper. Confused, I open my purse and find the three twenty-dollar bills I left on the table.
The motherfucker!
MEANT to Be Podcast
Knox and Emory
Kelsey: Welcome, listener, to the Meant to Be Podcast, where we talk to madly-in-love couples about the way they met. Knox and Emory, thank you so much for joining me today. Please, let’s get down to business. Tell us, how did you two meet?
Emory: College, our junior year.
Knox: She was a transfer student from California.
Emory: It was his last year at Brentwood before he was drafted to play for the Chicago Bobbies.
Knox: Technically, we met at a baseball party. She showed me her boob.
Emory: That is not how it went. We were drunk, I was looking for my friends, and I asked him for help. We went into his room, I fell, and my boob popped out.
Knox: I was enamored with the nip slip.
Emory: I was horrified the next morning. We went on our merry way until he spotted me lost on campus. He said—and I quote—he never forgets a good pair of tits.
Kelsey: Oh my God. Ha-ha-ha.
Knox: I don’t. And I never did. The rest is history.
Emory: The rest is not history. He spent months attempting to win my affections in the most ridiculous ways possible.
Knox: And I won her over.
Emory: Only to break up for eight years. But then . . . we found each other again.
Knox: I wasn’t letting her go that time. I put a ring on it and then . . . the rest is history.
