And I definitely didn’t feel a little buzz of pleasure when he smiled.
Nope, that was pride. Because he’s a good student. I’m simply pleased he suggested I pick the wine, so I’m giving props for that. But so I don’t get caught up in his grinning superpower and its kryptonite effect on me, I lift the glass to my lips and indulge in a sip, shifting my focus to the wine and away from those soulful eyes, that hint of stubble on his jaw, and his dark brown hair that swoops across his forehead in thick waves.
I am immune to good-looking men, I tell myself. It’s a mantra I devised when my last relationship imploded on account of my handsome, brilliant ex-boyfriend, Anthony, ditching me for the woman he dated right before me. I was his rebound girl, and he used me to springboard right back to her. Really, when I think about it, that was his one flaw. He was an all-around good guy, and we were a great match in every other way, barring his still being secretly in love with someone else.
Sigh.
I have no interest in tumbling down that rabbit hole again or developing even an iota of a feeling for someone who has his heart set on another.
I set down the wine and recalibrate. “Project Cassandra begins now. I did a little research on her after I saw my dad.”
He arches a brow curiously.
“Facebook is an amazing thing,” I say, since I poked around her page today, learned more about her transition from choreography to yoga, and even read a few older posts from friends, complimenting her on a blog she kept a few years ago. But there was no trace of the blog, so she must not write it anymore. Still, I gleaned plenty from her yoga studio’s site, as well as her Facebook page. “I assume you looked under the rug a little bit online?”
“Definitely. I went to her yoga studio’s site. It’s very . . .” He stares at the ceiling like he’s thinking of just the right words. “Yoga-y.”
I laugh. “Yes, that’s a good thing for a yoga studio site to be.”
“It was all about mindfulness and embracing your whole self and being one with the universe. Ergo, it was yoga-y.”
“Yes, but that’s part and parcel of who she is now. Her favorite quote is from Laura Ingalls Wilder: ‘It is the sweet, simple things of life which are the real ones after all.’ That’s why I think we have to eschew big gestures with her.”
He quirks his lips. “Eschew? Is that your new language test?”
“Of course. It flips on Fridays. The new one is ‘insert an unusual synonym into everyday conversation.’” I run my finger along the wineglass stem. “Do you agree?”
He pouts. “I agree that your plan sucks all the merriment out of the pursuit.”
“Ooh. Well played.”
“But seriously, why are big gestures forbidden?”
“Big gestures are fine, but only once you know a woman is into you.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “She’ll be into me.”
“Cocky bastard.”
“I’m an irresistible bastard too. Just ask Midge.”
I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “I think we’ve established the Midge Misread is why we’re here right now. While we’re at it, let’s also agree to no placards at the door, no boom box, and definitely no chasing her down at the airport.”
“But don’t you writers love all that stuff?”
I sketch air quotes. “‘All that stuff’ is for the end of the story. The story should begin with a meet-cute. And when it’s a second-chance romance, like yours could be, you don’t need a meet-cute. Especially since Cassie seems to value a more simplified approach. My vote is you be earnest and honest and show up humbly and ask for a second chance.”
Reaching under the table, he takes out his phone and taps on the screen. “Just writing this down,” he mutters, and then shows me a note he’s sending himself.
Earnest, honest, ask for a chance.
Wow. The man is actually taking notes, and I’m impressed. Also, it’s a little adorable that he thinks he can’t remember otherwise. He looks up and clears his throat. “I was thinking of showing up at a restaurant where she’s dining, standing on the table, and confessing my undying love for her. Would that be earnest and honest?” He tilts his head, his eyes wide, totally playing me.
I shake a finger. “You will do no such thing. Just keep it simple. Knock on her door. Send her a note. Heck, send her flowers and ask her if she’d like to go out.”
“Flowers? That seems like something any guy could do.”
“But in this case, you want to be any guy. You want her to see you in the same light she’d see anyone she’s thinking of dating.”
“I’d actually like it to be a better light.”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I’m saying. Cassie is a woman who values the heart. Speak from the heart, not a script.”
Before he can weigh in, the waiter arrives, ready to take our orders. Tom holds up a hand, speaking confidently. “I’ve got this.”
I furrow my brow. “Got what?”
“The ordering. I’ll handle it.”
“Why would you handle it?”
“Returning the favor and all, for the wine. I checked out the menu online before I arrived.”
He turns to the waiter, and I’m about to cut in, but then I decide to watch the show, like it’s a nature documentary. Watch the modern male as he navigates the wild of restaurants. Tom orders roasted corn ravioli for himself, saying he’s been dying to try it, then the pan-fried sea bass for me, wiggling his eyebrows, adding for my benefit, “It’s wild-caught, that’s the best. I bet the fish was happy.”
“The happiest,” I echo as I wait, just wait, for him to realize his mistake. But he doesn’t, and I’m not going to let on yet. As they say, this is a teachable moment.
When the waiter leaves, Tom flashes those pearly whites. “Okay, give me more stuff. I need all the details. If I’m on a date with Cassandra, what else shouldn’t I do?”
The thing he just did, which I’m not going to let on right now. I sidestep to other issues. “Besides discuss religion and politics?”
“Everyone loves to discuss who they voted for and the existence of God, right?”
“Absolutely. Those are great topics.”
He grabs his phone and taps out another note, then shows the note to me. Discuss gun control and church attendance.
“Boom. You’re good to go. Wait. One more topic. On the first date, you definitely shouldn’t talk a lot about sex, favorite positions, and size too.”
He blinks. “Wait. Why can’t we talk about sex?”
I stare at him. “You’re seriously asking?”
“Why wouldn’t we talk about sex and favorite positions on the first date?”
I can’t quite believe he doesn’t have a clue, so I keep it simple for him. “She might think you’re only into her for sex, and clearly that’s not the case, since you have a big thing for her.”
“It is a big thing,” he says, deadpan.
I give him an oh-no-you-didn’t look.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Got it. No sex talk because she’ll think I’m well-endowed and she doesn’t want a well-endowed man.”
I reach across the table to poke his shoulder. “You do know women are not as obsessed with size as you think?”
He scratches his head. “They’re not?”
“It’s all a matter of what you can do with it.”
He leans closer, drops his chin in his hands. “It’s how you use it?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Can we talk about how I like to use it? How I’d want to make a woman feel so fucking good with it?”
A spark shimmies down my spine, and my cheeks go up in flames. I press my finger to my lips. “Shh.”
His lips curve up. “You’re embarrassed.”
Glancing around the tiny dining room, I whisper, “You’re just loud.”
His eyes glint mischievously. “And you’re completely embarrassed by sex talk.”
I straighten my spine. “I’m not embarrassed by it at all,” which isn’t a lie.