I search Vincent’s face, hoping to catch a glimpse of his true thoughts on our age difference, but he only lifts the corners of his mouth as if I’ve just told him he’s won a luxury Hawaiian vacation.
“If fifty is the new thirty, then forty is the new twenty. Which makes you a real daddy,” he says playfully, twiddling his fingers on the napkin still resting on the table.
“I’ve been told.” I smile through the nerves in my tummy. “Nobody’s called me that in a very long time.”
“Well, take it from me, it’s hot,” he says. Vincent raises his eyebrows, and my wine glass slips, but I catch it before adding to the mess already paying rent on my shirt.
Val comes and takes our order. Vincent gets a bulgogi taco salad, and, feeling adventurous, I order the Seoul Burrito. When the food arrives, Vincent plays a game with his napkin. He’s doing some kind of origami. There’s folding, unfolding, refolding, moving, dabbing, and then he repeats the whole thing. When he catches me staring, he smiles.
“I’m aiming for a clean spot each time I wipe, and well, I wipe often,” he says with a chuckle. “You should’ve seen me before. Piles and piles of napkins.” Vincent motions to an imaginary tall pile on the table. “A friend taught me this trick. Now, I get by with only one or two.”
Vincent’s candidness is a breath of fresh air. Transparency, especially about anything considered difficult to discuss, isn’t easy. He’s winning points for being so straightforward.
“Hey, that’s smart. And you know, I’m thrilled you’re comfortable being honest about it.” My lips arrange into a smile at his openness.
“What I’ve learned,” he says, carefully digging into his bulgogi taco salad, “it’s just better for me to be frank from the get-go. Like this.” He nods toward his food. “I don’t like my food to touch on a plate. But a salad. In a bowl. Everything mixed and touching? Perfectly fine. So, when I’m out with a handsome man … ” He blinks, and fuck, those eyelashes may be the death of me. “I stick to salads. My OCD can be annoying as hell, mostly to me, but it doesn’t define me.”
“Of course not.”
Vincent takes a small bite, chews, and, before he even swallows, wipes what appears to be a clean mouth. He does his little folding ritual and starts over. There’s something endearing about the methodical way he moves, and I have the urge to find out more about him.
“What about you?” he asks. “What red flags are hiding under that wine-stained shirt?”
“Which one would you like to hear about first?” Another smile spreads across my face. “It’s been over seven years since I’ve been with someone. I haven’t been with a man since high school, and that was only once,” I say, omitting the gory details.
“And don’t forget your cat,” he offers.
I laugh, and my eyes focus on Vincent’s plump lips. Does all the wiping make them any less soft? Would he ever let me find out?
“Yes, Sweetums can be a handful. But he’s not all bad. I promise.” I take a sip of wine, careful to make sure my lips make contact with the glass. “And neither am I.”
“Definitely not.” His hazel eyes lock with mine. Those fucking eyelashes. Vincent blinks, and they pull my focus like a magnet. There’s a moment of silence. He seems to study me, and having him scrutinize me makes my skin tingle.
Val returns to clear our plates and asks, “Can I interest you in the dessert menu?”
Without taking his eyes off me, Vincent replies, “No, just the check, Val.”
He does this half-smile thing, and my pulse revs as my heart pounds in my chest.
“Well, okay then, I’ll get the check,” she says, and Vincent’s gaze falls to my lips.
“How about dessert back at my place?” he asks.
My eyes go wide and, en route to my lap, my hand smacks the handle of my fork, sending it sailing across the room until it crashes against the wall with a loud clang. On its journey, it fortunately misses the other guests and only serves to humiliate me.
A spinning breathlessness overtakes me. Back to his place? We just met. This was not on my bingo card for my first date in … forever. With his gentle smile and non-threatening demeanor, Vincent wouldn’t hurt a fly. But that look in his eyes—a sparkling simmer intrigues me. What is he after? Catching my gaze, he raises his right eyebrow.
“Um, sure.”
My head whirls and I grab my wallet from my pocket. What have I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER 3
Vincent
I have never done this before. A blind date, one-night stand. Hookup. Whatever it’s called. It’s one of the reasons I like SWISH. The men are typically looking for more than a roll in the hay, but something about Kent … That beard. That silver hair. Those kind eyes. The soft dad bod I sense underneath his crumpled clothes. It’s been four years since anyone but my right hand has touched my cock. Marvin said to listen to my heart, but he didn’t mention my dick. Take a risk. Stay open. With Kent, all my cylinders are firing. I decide to go for it. Him.
Kent follows me home and parks in my condo’s guest spot. As we walk up the path, the sound of our footsteps echoes through the quiet night air. I offered him dessert but don’t have anything sweet. He has to know I didn’t invite him back to make hot fudge sundaes. Approaching the entry, I turn and shoot him a grin. Somehow, this sends him tripping over my doormat.
