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Flula?
No.
I know it’s not that one.
That’s the name of the actor from Pitch Perfect 2.
I knew better than to let Nat pick the movie for our girl’s night yesterday. She always picks something she can sing along to. Loudly. But thankfully she has the voice of a Grammy winner rather than a dying cat. It makes her inability to resist singing along to everything almost enjoyable.
Tate’s grin suddenly grows like he has me exactly where he wants. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“What question?”
He triumphantly chortles and adjusts his tie, dragging my attention to his perfect throat.
Jimny fucking crickets, dude. How can someone’s fucking neck be perfect?!
“Your guest?” His hand motions to the empty seat. “Family? Friend?”
Unable to remember the randos exact name has me offhandedly answering, “Date.”
I expect his smile to fade not spread. “Then there’s still time.”
“For?”
“Me.”
My heart pounds harder against my ribcage, desperate to be heard, refusing to be ignored. “Meaning?”
“Meaning,” his face falls a little closer to mine as he lowers his voice, “leave me your number, and it’ll be me sitting across from you at breakfast.”
“You mean dinner?”
“I don’t.”
The waggling of his eyebrows momentarily drops my jaw. Snickering at his brazenness along with his brass balls is done on a slow headshake of disbelief. “You’re way too young for me, and you know it.”
“Or maybe,” Tate counters, tone darkening, “just young enough.”
“What the hell does that even mean?!” I absentmindedly squeak.
Another laugh falls from him causing my toes to curl inside my pumps.
Oh, will someone blow the whistle already for a penalty on this play?!
No man – young or not so young – should be able to make your toes curl outside the sheets you’ve never been in together!
“It means,” his tongue steals a lick of the lips I need to stop wishing I could, “this isn’t the only place I can serve you, beautiful.”
In spite of my extensive, extensive efforts to swallow the whimper he’s conjured, it still manages to find freedom like an uncuffed prisoner during a prison break.
Tate shoots me a victorious wink. “I look forward to hearing that more.”
The opportunity for a rebuttal is robbed by the redheaded man approaching the table. “Harper?”
Banishing the lustful look lingering in my expression requires not only heavy blinking but a brief ruffle of my recently straightened locks. “Yes. And you’re-”
“Lars,” he thankfully answers while extending his hand for the shaking. “Nice to meet you.”
