TO AN EYE OF A PASSIVE OBSERVER, Thalia and I might be mistaken for a couple on a date. We’re not, but even if, I wouldn’t regret almost forcing her to eat with me.
We left my office a few minutes past one in the afternoon and spent five hours talking. Five fucking hours. Time flies when you’re having fun. And boy, am I. She’s easy to talk to, witty, intelligent, and curious.
And hot…
So hot. Curvy, with plenty of flesh to grab. Busty, with wide hips and a visible waist. The definition of hourglass, she can’t be classed as fat nor skinny—healthy, is what my grandma would say. Fucking perfect is my definition.
We have more in common than I expected, but her positivity is the most impressive character trait I’ve uncovered so far. She radiates cheerfulness like a glow-in-the-dark stick. She hardly ever stops smiling. Her eyes sparkle with genuine glee, even though she’s alone in a foreign country, took on a second job, and lives in a motel. She’s grateful for the opportunity to start from scratch, from the very bottom, ready and willing to work her way up.
“What type of a dog do you want?” she asks in that colorful Greek accent I can’t get over, her eyes dancing, alive, bright and fucking beautiful.
Honestly, I can’t get over how beautiful she is. It tears me a new one every time I glimpse her face, and looking away takes more effort than anything ever should. My poker face, though, is unrivaled, intact at all times.
She studies the menu in deep concentration, toying with a lock of hair. The gesture has annoyed the hell out of me since I can remember, but Thalia doesn’t pair it with seductive stares and smiles. She pairs it with a frown…
Instead of irritating, it’s sexy as hell.
I’m pretty sure if I let her choose, she’ll pick the smallest, cheapest dish on the menu, so when the waiter comes back, I order shrimp for starters, two lobsters for mains, and a bottle of wine, shushing Thalia when she tries to cut in.
“I was thinking about a German Shepherd, but I won’t brush his coat, and he’ll probably end up looking homeless within a month.”
“No, a German Shepherd won’t suit you. You need a manlier dog… a pit bull or a Doberman.”
“A pit bull? Seriously? I’d get a Yorkie before a pit bull, Thalia. I’d probably dress it in a pink coat and walk it down the pier long before I’d look at a pit bull.”
The waiter brings a bottle of red wine, filling our glasses while Thalia laughs, the sound melodic and light, her whole face glowing. She must imagine me with a pocket-sized Yorkie puppy strolling down the main street.
I’d do it. A tiny, adorable dog dressed in pink wouldn’t put a dent in my masculinity.
“I know!” she exclaims, quickly clasping a hand over her mouth, glancing around with big, amused eyes. “You should get a boxer,” she adds, the words almost a whisper.
The longer I watch her, the more details I notice. Her lashes are long and dark, her nose bears a faint line of freckles, and she has a beauty mark above the left corner of her upper lip, in the same spot as Marylin Monroe’s. I want to touch it. Kiss it, and kiss that bitable, alluring swell of her lips.
I shift in my chair, inconspicuously adjusting my hardening dick. I know I won’t fuck Thalia, but my dick apparently didn’t get the memo.
This is so fucked-up…
I don’t entirely understand why I’m not making a move. I’m pretty sure Thalia wouldn’t say no, but as much as I want to see her writhing beneath me, using my usual stupid tricks on her makes my skin break out in fucking hives. I imagine her getting dressed afterwards, leaving my house and nope… won’t happen. She’s better than that. Better than me.
“A boxer, huh?” I ask, focusing on the topic before my brain melts and pours out of my ears. “That’s actually not a bad idea. They’re good with kids, right?”
Her smile fades, and I get a real kick seeing the confirmation painted over her face—she’s into me. “I didn’t know you have kids.” Charming amusement hisses out from her voice, and she holds her chin higher, suddenly closed off. “But yes, boxers are great with kids.”
“I don’t have kids. Neither a wife nor a girlfriend, so no kids for me in the near future, but Shawn’s engaged,” I say, watching her relax, and cheeks heat to a rose color. “They’ll want to adopt as soon as they elope. I’d rather not buy a dog that’ll scare my niece or nephew.”
“They can’t have kids, or do they prefer to adopt?”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t mind a biological kid, but two guys can’t make that happen. Shawn’s gay, Thalia. How did you not pick up on that?”
I tell her about Shawn and Jack’s long road to engagement before the food arrives. Time flies and stands still all at once. She teaches me more words in Greek over dinner, but only after she checks if I remember hello and bye. Once I finish my glass of wine, I settle for refilling hers, enjoying how her cheeks glow pinker with every sip.
It’s my turn to ask questions, but Thalia paints a vague picture of her childhood and teenage years. She avoids the topic of her parents and friends, mentions no names, and evades when I ask what part of Greece she’s from.
The reluctance to share, the fading smile, and the short, ambiguous answers confirm my suspicion. She’s hiding something. Either that or she still doesn’t trust me enough to share any details.
I change the strategy, asking about her instead. Typical questions I never bothered with before—likes and dislikes, hopes and aspirations. The usual first date bullshit.
It’s not a date, though. Remember?
I don’t notice people leaving the restaurant, blind to the staff clearing the tables, too engaged and focused on the witty brunette. She’s the center of my attention until a waiter approaches, his face apologetic, check in hand.
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but we closed an hour ago.”
Two lines crease my forehead when I glance at my watch. It’s eleven o’clock. Surely, it stopped working…
The moving arms prove me wrong.
How did we spend all day together?
How am I not bored with her yet?
Usually, I don’t entertain women this long. A tenth of that time is rare, and even when it happens, the agenda is clear: sex. Not today, because I selflessly declared Thalia off-limits to my dick last week.
She gasps, giggles, and polishes off the last of her wine while I settle the bill. Other than the gleam in her brown eyes, the cranked-up cheerfulness, and broader smiles, she seems sober, despite finishing the bottle almost by herself.
“Come on, I say, opening the door for her like a medieval fucking gentleman. “I’ll take you home.”
“Motel,” she corrects firmly, “Not home. Not yet.”
I won’t admit it aloud, but whenever she mentions the motel, a burning sensation, like the swift kick of Tabasco, starts in the pit of my stomach. The cheap, sleazy place is the heart of Newport Beach’s shady business deals. A place for hookers to work their magic and dealers to move product.
Thalia’s young, pretty, and opinionated. One wrong word to the wrong person, and she could end up in a lot of trouble.
“That’s me.” She gestures to the old rattling building when I pull into the parking lot.
Sky-blue paint peels off the walls, and the broken, faded, trellises pinned to the railing of the second-floor walkway give off a horror-movie vibe. The climbing plant that must’ve thrived on the trellis at some point overhangs loosely, forgotten, dry, and dead like the dreams of many drug addicts frequenting the establishment.
Thalia and I spent ten hours together, but now that she’s about to exit my Camaro, I wish for ten more. “I want your number, omorfiá.”
Without hesitation, she draws her phone out, tapping on the screen. A moment later, my cell vibrates.
Unknow number: Sas efcharistó gia ton kafé kai to deípno. Elpízo na niótheis arketá arrenopós, allá an den to káneis, boreís na ftiáxeis ton nerochýti pou échei diarroí sto domátió mou. Kalinýchta, Theo.
I’m rendered momentarily speechless when she leans across the middle console, pressing a delicate kiss to my cheek, her lips soft and warm, the kiss light, barely a fucking suggestion, but intense enough to set my mind ablaze.
She yanks the door open and walks off before I come to my senses. It might be for the best… I have the urge to chase her, tear the loose t-shirt and jean shorts off her olive skin, throw her on the bed and cover her naked body with mine.
As soon as she disappears behind door number thirteen, I save her number, copy her text and let Google Translate do the hard work.
Thalia: Thank you for the coffee and dinner. I hope you feel quite masculine, but if you don’t, you can fix the leaking tap in my room. Good night, Theo.
“Good night, omorfiá.”
