“You know, McKenna,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along one of my bangles. For a second, I think he’s going to say something about my penchant for accessories. But instead, he kind of nods at my tee-shirt, at the crown hanging off the last letter in the name of the “Scottish Play.”
“You have cool tee-shirts.”
I laugh a little.
“I noticed that about you the first time I met you.”
“You did?” I ask, not in a questioning way, but to keep up the conversation.
“That time at the electronics store, the first thing I noticed was you were hot. The second thing I noticed was you were funny. The third thing I noticed was you were really cool. And the fourth thing I noticed was you had on this cool tee-shirt with a squirrel waterskiing on it. I like a chick with a good tee-shirt collection.”
I smile. Or maybe I beam. Because I don’t know which of those four things I like better – being thought of as hot, funny, cool or stylish. I like them all, for different reasons, but I have to say he saved the best for last. He likes my tee-shirts, he likes my style. He likes what makes me me, and that’s enough for me to feel totally under his spell, body and heart.
“No one has ever said that to me,” I say with a smile, pushing my hair back, leaning my head a little to the side, deliberately flirting with him. I am doing those things behavioral scientists say men and women do when they write their “Science of Flirting” articles: sit closer, make eye contact, flick their hair. I am the “Science of Flirting” right now and I don’t care. I’m not flirting because he’s a contender, I’m not flirting because he’s my partner in crime. I’m flirting because I want to. And I am pretty sure when Chris smiles back at me, a sparkle in his eyes, that he’s flirting for the same reasons. I linger on his eyes for a moment, his Hawaii eyes, pools of green that strip me bare with the way he looks at me when his playfulness shifts to intensity.
Then I break the gaze because it’s getting late. “I should get going. My dog probably misses me.”
He pays the bill. “Since this wasn’t an official date, I’m going to skirt the Trophy Husband rules and be the gentleman here.”
We head out of the Tiki Bar and walk slowly up Fillmore. At the top of the hill, I see Erin’s maroon Prius. I point to it.
“These are my wheels.” I click on the key to unlock the car. Then I reach for the door handle. But it doesn’t open. I try again. Same thing happens. “Damn. What is up with these hybrids?”
“They have to calibrate to your heart rate.”
“Then how the heck am I supposed to drive it home?”
“I know a trick,” Chris says.
“You do?”
“Remember, McKenna, I’m a software engineer by training.”
“Software engineer. Car burglar. They’re practically the same thing these days,” I say, as I turn to face him.
“Want to give me the keys and I’ll show you?” he asks, holding open his palm for me.
But before I can pull away, he closes his fingers over mine, gripping my hand in his. That’s all it takes. Within seconds I am in his arms, and we are wrapped up in each other. His lips are sweeping mine, and I press my hands against his chest, and oh my. He does have the most fantastic outlines in his body. He is toned everywhere, strong everywhere, and I am dying to get my hands up his shirt, and feel his bare chest and his belly. But if I did, I might just jump him right here because I am one year and running without this. Without kissing, without touching, without feeling this kind of heat.
He twines his fingers through my hair, and the way he holds me, both tender and full of want at the same time, makes me start to believe in possibilities. Start to believe that you can try again, and it’ll be worth it. His lips are so soft, so unbearably soft, and I can’t stop kissing him. He has the faintest taste of Diet Coke on his lips, and it’s crazy to say this, but it almost makes me feel closer to him. Or maybe I feel closer because he’s leaning into me, his body is aligned with mine, and there’s no space between us, and I don’t want any space between us. I want to feel him against me, his long, strong body tangled up in mine, even though we’re fully clothed, making out on the street. I don’t know how it happened, but somewhere along the way I’ve grabbed his tee-shirt, my fingers curled tightly around the fabric.
He breaks the kiss, but I don’t let go of his clothes. I don’t let go of him. “I wanted to kiss you all night.”
“You did?”
“Yeah, that key thing was just an excuse. Sometimes you just have to hit the button a few times to get the car to open.”
I laugh. “So you said that to kiss me?”
He nods. “Totally.”
“I’m glad you tricked me,” I whisper, as he bends his head and kisses my neck, blazing a trail of sweet and sexy kisses down to my throat, and it’s almost sensory overload the way he ignites me. Forget tingles, forget goosebumps. That’s kid stuff compared to this. My body is a comet with Chris. I am a shooting star with the way he kisses me. I don’t even know if I have bones in my body anymore. I don’t know how I’m standing. I could melt under the sweet heat of his lips that are now tracing a line down my chest to the very top of my br**sts, as he tugs gently at my shirt, giving himself room to leave one more brush of his lips, before he stops.
He looks at me, and the expression on his face is one of pride and lust. He knows he’s turned me inside out and all the way on.