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“You’re going to ruin your appetite,” Hayes says with a sigh, eyeing the large slice of apple pie I’ve cut myself. He’s stretched out on the chaise—already irritatingly tan while I’ve been applying SPF 50 every hour this afternoon to keep from burning—and being awfully judgmental for a guy who just bought his weight in baked goods last night.
“Ruin my appetite for what?” I counter. “I assume we’re eating Pop-Tarts for dinner. At least this has fruit in it.”
He snatches the fork from my hand and pops its contents in his mouth. “We’ve got dinner in an hour down the street. And the place is nice” —his eyes trail over my bare stomach, lingering on the side tie of my bikini bottoms for a moment —“so you might want to be slightly less naked than you are.”
He made us a reservation. I stick the pie in his lap and jump to my feet. I have no idea why, as I rush inside to shower, I’m smiling as wide as I am.
I take my time getting ready before donning a strapless white sundress. I dab my lips with a rose-tinted balm and get a good look at myself in the mirror. The girl who smiles back at me—the one with glowing eyes and sun-warmed cheeks—looks like she’s on the cusp on something big, something exciting. I try to remind her she’s not, but it’s hard not to feel like this is a date when I walk out to find Hayes waiting in the living room, his eyes consuming me as I approach.
His teeth sink into his lip and I feel a stab of desire so sharp I almost stumble from it.
It’s not a date, but if it were, I’d press up close and whisper in his ear, suggesting we cancel dinner entirely. Then I’d press my lips to his jaw just to feel that five o’clock shadow of his against my skin. I’d finish unbuttoning the shirt he’s got on, running my hands down his chest, letting my fingers trace all the hard hills and valleys of his stomach before they trail lower…to his belt, which I’d rip loose so fast my speed would shock us both.
But, of course, this is absolutely not a date.
“Let’s go,” I say. “Since someone ate all the pie.”
His mouth slips into a smile. “I believe that someone is you.”
“I’m just pointing out that pie is no longer an option,” I say, lips twitching. “I’m sorry you feel the need to assign blame.”
We walk two blocks down to the restaurant, which is oceanfront and insanely expensive. He orders a bottle of wine that is worth more than my car—not that that’s saying much—and tastes like happiness in liquid form.
Dinner is served while we watch the sun dim and then set in an explosion of reds and fiery orange. He eats off my plate and I eat off his. Not a date, I remind myself. Definitely not a date.
“What an amazing day,” I say, twirling pasta around my fork. “I can’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed.”
I wish we were staying longer. Or never planning to leave at all.
He leans back in his seat, holding his glass of wine to his chest. “Was a day with me better than a day with Matt?”
It’s so weird how competitive he is with someone he’s not actually competing against. “Anything with you is better than it was with Matt.” My reply is instant, as I reach across the table to take another bite of his risotto. “Don’t get too flattered. I’ve finally realized he wasn’t all that great.”
“I could have told you that within thirty seconds of meeting him. Men like him want to be the center of someone’s universe and look elsewhere the minute they’re not.”
I lean toward him. “You date all these girls who act like you’re a superhero. Is that so different?”
“I date women who don’t expect anything, and the rest of it…just comes with the territory. You don’t actually think that’s what I want.”
It’s not a question, but a statement. And he’s right. I don’t think he enjoys the way women treat him. He simply chooses women who understand what he’s willing to offer and who, I suspect, won’t make him want more either.
It will never make him happy.
But I could, a voice whispers.
What a ridiculous, dangerous thought to entertain.
A waiter clears our plates, but we nurse the last of the wine, neither of us in a rush to leave. It feels, here, as if he’s mine—the pleasure of his words and his smile and his gaze. I try to ignore the part of me that, increasingly, wants more. Wants to feel the rough press of his skin, his weight above me, hear the sounds he makes when he’s losing control.
The adorable elderly couple at the table opposite us is served a large bottle of champagne on ice and they then rise and bring it to our table. “We’re celebrating our anniversary, but we can’t drink this alone,” the man says. “Do you mind if we join you? My wife keeps talking about how much you remind her of us when we were younger.”
Hayes and I share a glance—he looks as reluctant as I do to give up even a minute of our time alone, but it would be almost uncivil not to agree. “Of course,” Hayes replies, his smile forced.
They introduce themselves, and then Jacob, the husband, calls the waitress over for glasses while Hayes asks Barb, the wife, how long they’ve been married.
“Fifty years,” Jacob answers for her. He looks at our hands. “How about you two? I don’t see any rings.”
