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And the evening only grew progressively worse from there. When we finally made it to my truck—not actually in the truck, but to the truck, it wasn’t that easy, turns out, my truck wasn’t in the top ten safest vehicles ranked by Forbes, so she was apprehensive about getting in. I explained to her that we were only traveling a couple miles through town and there would be no travel on the main highway. After cleaning my door handle thoroughly with a Clorox wipe she pulled from her purse and testing the seat belt a couple times, we were off to the restaurant.
An hour later, after we visited multiple restaurants and finally found one up to health codes, according to her, we finally sit down to dinner. “So, uhm, Ma-Madden,” Ellie, stammers as she wipes invisible lint from the linen tablecloth, what must be the tenth time in fifteen minutes, “y-you’re in con-construction?”
This is my first date in over five years, and so far it’s been a disaster. Luckily, Ellie is cute.
Blonde curls hang in ribbons down her back, framing a heart-shaped face with a smattering of freckles on her nose and cheeks, and her blue eyes are round and doe-like. She’s short in stature, with curves for days, but she’s definitely the modest type—the pearl necklace and cardigan draped across her shoulders screams innocence. She seems nervous as hell, her hands trembling, and every sentence she attempts to speak comes out choppy or broken with stutters.
“Yeah, I own Davenport Construction. It’s a family business. What do you do, Ellie?” The waitress interrupts to take our appetizer orders, filling our water glasses while we wait.
“I, uh, work at the Marine Science Center.” Ellie reaches into her purse and pulls out a … straw and a small white cloth? I scan the table, noticing the paper-wrapped straws the waitress left behind. She polishes the straw and inspects it carefully, holding it up to the light before placing it in her water glass. I take the straw from the paper wrapper and shove it into my glass, wishing it was something stronger
than water. Her eyes are laser focused on the glass and my straw, then she sighs, drops her shoulders, and mutters, “One sea turtle down.”
Alrighty then. “I-I’m a pr-project manager of the lo-loggerhead t-turtle co-conservation t-team.” She shakily lifts the glass and places the straw between her lips.
“No shit. That’s pretty cool.” Her brows furrow, and she sets the glass down as the waitress drops off the complimentary basket of hush puppies in the center of the table. She studies them intently. Crap, wonder which animal demise the hush puppies are the result of. I don’t reach out to grab the hush puppies, not because I don’t love ’em, I do, but I’m still on a diet, and I’ve worked too hard to go back now. The silence is awkward, sure as shit uncomfortable.
“So, Ellie, what do you like to do for fun?” I ask.
She looks up at me and blinks. “What do you mean fun?”
“Like hobbies and interests.”
“Oh ummm,” she mutters, “I like to organize things.”
“You mean like planning parties and such.” I just assume that’s what she means.
“No, I mean like my home and office,” she says excitedly. Too excitedly for a sane person. “I like to alphabetize my personal papers, DVD’s and organize my home.”
What the hell?
“Oh, ummm … that’s nice.” That is so not nice. This is fucking weird. What the hell am I doing here, and where the hell did she come from? How much longer do I have to stay here? I glance down at my watch and internally groan. This night needs to move it on down the line.
We continue with boring small talk, Ellie telling me all about the recycling project she’s managing at the community center. I mean, I’m all about saving the turtles and protecting the planet, but this girl seems completely obsessed.
The meal arrives, and Ellie goes to her bag of tricks again. She produces a small bottle of hand sanitizer and proceeds to basically bathe herself in it. I can’t even concentrate on the wonderful meal in front of me because I can’t tear my eyes away from the pile of crazy sitting across from me. When she produces a sanitizing wipe and proceeds to wipe off the silver wear she just unwrapped and then a bottle of antacid medicine to take before her meal, I’m tempted to ask if she has a sedative in that bag of tricks so I can sleep through the rest of this date.
“No-no-no-no-no-no,” she chants and swiftly shoves her chair back and stands, creating a scene and gathering the attention of the entire restaurant over the sound of classic rock playing. Hell, at first I thought she was inspired by Aerosmith’s Love in an Elevator and wanted to dance; obviously not. I stand and stalk around the table, my hand reaching out to take hers. But I quickly think twice about it—I haven’t been properly sanitized. Damn, I wonder what all I would have to endure if I tried to get into her panties. My dick shudders at the thought of being cleaned with a loofa.
“Hey, now,” I offer in my coolest tone, “what’s wrong?”
She has the most serious look on her face, so I prepare for her to tell me she accidentally ate something she is allergic to or that she just remembered a previous obligation she forgot about when she mutters, “It’s just not sanitary.”
“What?” I ask. With this chick it could be anything from the dishes to the shoes I have on.
“Your meal, it is not sanitary. Do you know that lobster was completely helpless when it was just snatched right out of its home?”
Fuck me running, she is this keyed up because of the lobster on my plate. “Okay, okay,” I coo, “I’ll have them take it away. Just sit down.”
“SIT DOWN?” she screams out as if it was a question. “SIT DOWN! I most certainly will not.”
I’m speechless. I have no clue how to deal with this brand of crazy.
“I can’t be here; we must go,” she states before storming out of the restaurant. I fall into my seat, the unsanitary lobster now mocking me with its beady little eyes, wondering what the hell just happened.
CHAPTER TWELVE
JORDAN
