Page 23 of Mr. Match

“I… I think he was only going to offer me a ride home.”

“That’s what they all say, kid. Trust me.”

“But—”

“No, seriously. It’s just an opening. A way to get you alone. Make you vulnerable. And then after that they want…” He smiles at me, almost embarrassed. “You know.”

“Sex,” I offer, taking advantage of his reluctance to say the word. “I know him. He’s my best friend’s father.”

“Jesus Christ,” the guy says, swiping a hand across his brow.

“My dad’s on a business trip until Sunday night and I’m home alone.” What am I doing? “I don’t like to stay home alone. So I was hoping he’d invite me over for dinner. Or let me stay the night. But my friend, she’s out of town for the weekend with her mom. A fashion show down in Denver. So I knew there was no chance of that. I’m… Katya, by the way.”

And I just gave him my real name.

“Oliver,” he says, crossing the distance between us to offer his hand.

I shake it. Hold on to it a little longer than necessary. He’s warm and his grip tightens on my hand just a little more than it should.

“Do you have a phone I can use?” I ask, eyeing the building across the street he said was his house. “Maybe I can call another friend. Find somewhere else to stay this weekend.”

“Uh,” Oliver says, looking over his shoulder at his place. “Sure. Follow me.”

I watch his ass, and the muscles in his back that I can see, even through his thermal shirt. And listen to the way his boots thud on the street as we walk towards the building. “What kind of house is this?”

“Oh,” he says, opening a glass-front door and holding it for me. “It’s an old mechanic’s garage. I bought it a couple months ago. Still doing the residential conversion.”

Inside it’s all industrial. Concrete and metal and one of those pits in the floor that mechanics have for oil changes.

“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, pointing to the pit.

He looks at where I’m pointing. Silent for a few seconds. “I’m gonna plant a buckeye tree.”

I’m not sure if I should laugh or ask for details.

“Yeah, fill it with dirt, plant a little buckeye. See how long it takes to reach the ceiling. Then tear the whole place down when it gets too big.”

I look up at the ceiling. It’s high. Maybe twenty feet? Then look back at Oliver, his blue-gray eyes dancing along with his mischievous smile. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugs. “Family tradition.” And then he points to a large potted tree in the corner, up against the folding glass doors that are big enough to drive a car through. “That came from our farm out in Bellevue. It’s doing OK in the pot for now, but I gotta get it transplanted pretty soon.”

“Huh.” I take a second to appreciate how much better my day just got. No weird fantasy with an older man. No creeping around pretending to be his daughter’s friend. No groping or kissing.

At least not with him.

But this guy? Mr. Buckeye? Now this is a man I might be interested in.

“I know that guy was picking you up.”

I look over at Oliver and wait to see what he says next.

“I went to Catholic school. Just down the street at St. Joseph’s, in fact. And I dated my share of Parson girls when I was a kid. Your uniform is not even close to standard. That blue blazer only goes with the solid blue skirt. The Parson girls don’t even have tartan. You’re wearing a St. Joseph’s skirt with a Parson blazer.”

Shit.

“I know my way around a schoolgirl costume. And fuck that guy anyway. I’ve had my eye on you since you sat down on the bench. If you were waiting there for fifteen minutes, he was probably late.”

I have nothing to say to that.