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A car horn blares right outside the windows.
"That would be the surly Scot," Hugh says. "I should go. But text me your address and I'll pick you up at eight."
"Sure. See you tonight."
Hugh kisses my hand and leaves.
Oddly, I don't think about him all afternoon. But in the evening, I get myself gussied up and wait for my date to arrive. Hugh rings the doorbell at exactly eight o'clock and even offers me his arm as we leave my apartment. It's kind of sweet, but also a bit strange. Does anybody do that anymore? I slip my arm around his, but I don't feel any excitement about our date. Not even a twinge. He's a nice enough guy, under all that Lord Steamy nonsense. Why can't I muster any interest in him? I shouldn't have agreed to a date when I know I don't want to actually date him.
So I stop us at the elevator and turn to face him. "I have to be honest with you. The only reason I agreed to go out with you is because I'm bored with my life. I haven't had a date in a long time. I'm not attracted to you. Sorry, but that's the truth. I'll understand if you don't want to have dinner with me."
He smiles, but the expression falters briefly. Then he reasserts his breezy demeanor. "Of course I want to have dinner with you, Kate. We didn't meet under the most romantic circumstances, so maybe your feelings will change once we're enjoying a meal in a posh restaurant."
"Not sure about that. And I'm actually wiped out after a long day at work."
"You want to reschedule our date."
"Sorry. I know it's last minute, but—"
He pats my arm. "No worries, love. Another time."
"Thank you."
"Although I could cook for you. My mother insisted I learn how to prepare a proper meal, so I wouldn't end up living on takeaway foods."
I honestly feel bad about backing out on our date, so maybe I should let him cook for me. What harm could that do? "Okay. Let's eat in."
Once we get inside my apartment, I excuse myself to change out of my dressy clothes and into something more comfortable. When I told Hugh that, he smirked and suggested, "Get as comfortable as you like, pet. I love a woman in fuzzy pink slippers." I told him I don't have any of those, but he just smiled and started to remove his suit jacket.
When I emerge from the bedroom ten minutes later, I'm wearing my favorite sweatpants and T-shirt with a matching hoodie. My slippers are brown suede, not fuzzy and pink. I've washed off my makeup too and tied my hair back in a ponytail. Hugh is standing at the stove whipping up who knows what. I perch on a stool at the island to watch him.
He glances over his shoulder at me, and his brows hike up. "You really did get comfortable."
"Have I ruined your opinion of me with my sweats and slippers? Or maybe it's the fact I'm not wearing makeup anymore."
"No, I don't mind that at all. You are stunning, Kate, with or without makeup."
"Thank you." I try to peer around him, but I can't see the stove top. "What are you making?"
"It's a surprise." He turns around to wave a spatula at me. "Patience, love."
Now I can see he not only removed his jacket but also unhooked the top two buttons on his shirt. Maybe that exposed skin should make me feel…something. I can appreciate his physique and his looks, his personality too, but I don't feel the slightest urge to kiss him. Maybe Hugh is right, though, and the way we met has influenced my feelings for him.
Right now, I have only platonic feelings for him.
A few minutes later, I find out Hugh has made us omelets and toast. I'm not a food snob, so that meal suits me just fine. We sit on the sofa to eat—me at one end, Hugh at the other—and we engage in casual conversation. He doesn't ask about my past with men, and I don't ask about his experiences with women. We avoid the topic of Callum too. So basically, we chat about how beautiful Scotland is, how it compares to England, and then we discuss movies and TV shows. If this were an actual date, it would rate as the most mundane one I've ever had.
But it's not a date. Thank goodness.
When I escort Hugh to the door, he asks, "May I kiss you good night?"
"On the cheek or the mouth?"
"Your lips, love."
I feel the faintest tingle of excitement at the prospect, so I tell him, "Okay."
He cups my face in his hands, leans in, and presses his lips to mine.
