He looks at me and I look at him, and if he kisses me right now, I would fall apart under his touch.
He holds the gaze, and I look away, afraid of what my eyes might show.
chapter 11
Her
Four months later, I find my prince in a coffee shop downtown. Or rather, he finds me.
“Kate?” I look up and swallow the sip of coffee, my eyes darting over all of the details.
Soft brown hair, void of product.
Pale green eyes, the kind that smile. He wears glasses, and I unconsciously touch my own, glad that I’d skipped the contacts today.
His features are as advertised, a classic profile set off by straight, perfect teeth and an adorably crooked nose.
A blue sweater, the fabric snug around a manly build, his height tall enough that I can wear heels and still be shorter.
I rise, and extend a hand. “Hi. You must be Stephen.” We shake hands, and it is a good handshake, firm but not businesslike, his hands soft and warm, everything about him reassuringly conservative. “Please, sit down.”
He pulls out the opposite seat and settles into it, and there is a moment of awkward silence, one where I sip my coffee and he straightens his glasses, and I can’t, for the life of me, think of a single thing to say. Our eyes meet, he smiles, and I laugh despite myself.
“This is my fifth blind date,” he admits. “You’d think I would have learned something aside from my name by now.”
“My eighth.” I smile. “You look like you recently bathed, so you don’t really have to say anything. You’re already ahead of the rest.” It’s a lie, and he knows it, but he leans forward and conversation begins to flow.
“So you work in retail?” He tucks his hands into his pockets as we walk, his head down, ear cocked to me.
“Sort of. I work for an undergarments company. We supply to retail shops and some high-end chains.”
“Undergarments. Like underwear, hosiery?”
I nod, pulling back my hair into a low ponytail. “Yes. Less hosiery and more of the delicate items. Bras, panties, garters, babydolls. The sexier stuff. Our lines are fairly provocative.”
Trey would have made a sly comment, worked a compliment in, but Stephen only nods, his face a mask of concentration. “And what do you do for the company?”
“I model.”
The joke falls flat, and he only nods, as if I am serious, as if there is any chance of my frame on a cover. “I’m joking,” I hurry. “I’m the Creative Director; I’m responsible for the overall vision and the execution of it.” I feel the burst of pride that comes whenever I say my title.
“That’s nice.” We take the path into the park, a canopy of trees providing a break from the sun. His arm brushes mine, a reminder of where I am and who I am with. Not Trey, who is accustomed to my long stretches of silence, but this man, who probably thinks I’m odd. I am trying to think of something to say when he speaks. “How long have you been there?”
I relax a bit. “A year and a half.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I do,” I say honestly. “Trey is very good to work for. We get along well.”
“That’s nice.”
I ask him what he does, and learn that he is an oral surgeon. A fancy dentist, as he says. He travels two days a week, has a rescued dog, and a mother in Chula Vista. We both love sushi and hate Star Wars. We are both Words With Friends enthusiasts, and—unless I am misreading the look in his eye—we both want to see each other again.
We end our walk at the parking lot. Ahead of us, my bright red Mercedes convertible sits, a gift from Trey when we hit last year’s sales goal. He reaches into his pocket and a new Volvo SUV beeps. “That’s me.”
He turns to me and smiles. It’s a nice smile, one warm and friendly. He steps forward and my heart speeds up. A kiss. My first kiss since Craig. Would I remember how to do it properly?
He extends a hand. “Thank you for meeting me. And for not being a serial killer.”
I laugh, and take his hand. “Agreed. I was actually planning on being a serial killer but decided against it. My day is kind of full. Meetings.” I smile and I think he can tell I’m joking.
He steps back and waves. “I’ll call you. If that is okay.”
“It is.” I return the wave, and wait for him to turn, to walk away before I dig into my pockets for my keys.
“You told him you were a serial killer?” The wind ruffles the papers in Trey’s hand, and I glance toward them worriedly.
“Can we step inside?” I ask. “You’re going to lose something.”
He pushes the door open with his foot, holding it in place as he waves me through. “Is that what you wore?”