What I’m embarrassed about is how his “so fucking good” comment turned me on.
He holds up a thumb and forefinger. “A little? You’re a little embarrassed?”
“Are you trying to embarrass me?”
He laughs. “Honestly, I kind of am. You’re hilarious when your goat is gotten.”
I stare at him with narrowed eyes. “You did not get my goat.”
“I kind of did. Just admit it. Admit I got your goat.”
I cross my arms. “No way.”
He leans back in the chair, parking his hands behind his head. “Then let’s just talk about your favorite positions instead. Or maybe how you like to feel so fucking good.”
Tingles have the audacity to zip down my body once more.
I hold my hands out wide. “Fine. You. Got. My. Goat. Happy?”
“So satisfied,” he says in a sexy rasp, and my traitorous body grows warmer.
Must abort this conversation, stat. I sit up straighter. “If you were on a date with Cassandra, I bet this would be a good time to talk about likes and dislikes, her job, your job. Why don’t we talk about roller coasters?”
“I can do that all day. Do you like roller coasters?”
I breathe a deep sigh of relief as we move to a safer topic. “Love them,” I say, and that’s the God’s honest truth. “There’s nothing better than fear and thrill mingling together. Tell me more about the ones you’ve designed. What’s the secret to creating a great ride?”
His face is animated as he talks. “You want it to make a rider’s stomach flip upside down, yet you don’t want them to vomit. We try to discourage rides that lead to loss of lunch,” he says, and I laugh. “What about you? What’s the key to writing a great character and getting a laugh? Besides going to T.J. Maxx.”
“Comedy is timing. It’s the jokes, but it’s also all about knowing the right pace for the joke.” I take another drink of my wine.
“Which makes comedy a lot like delivering an orgasm?”
I nearly spit out my sauvignon blanc. “You’re still doing sex talk.”
He shakes his head, smiling impishly. “That’s analogy talk.”
I wiggle my eyebrows, playing along. “Fine, then. If you stimulate the funny bone just so, I suppose comedy is a lot like delivering pleasure.”
He snickers, lowering his gaze. “Like you said, you can’t say stimulate without it sounding dirty.”
“It’s an analogy!” I insist.
“An analogy you chose because you’re thinking about sex.”
I slap a hand on the table. “I’m not thinking about sex.”
He points at me, a self-satisfied grin on his face. “But you are thinking about the big finish? The peak? The summit?”
The blush? It returns. Full force. Beet red.
“I’m not thinking about orgasms.”
I am. It’s like when someone says don’t think about cookies and then all you can think about are cookies. And right now I can’t think about anything but how toe-curlingly good a cookie would be. That’s why I need to wrest control of this conversation. “If you think about it, we’re both in the same business. A good ride should hit the right peak, and a good joke should too.”
He strokes his chin as if in deep thought. “True. You need to make sure you deliver the right amount of joke prep. A word here, the right delivery there. Then the joke rises, strengthens, insists on being noticed. And then you have to make sure the joke recipient is ready, primed, right on the cusp of hearing the great joke.”
I toss a napkin at him.
“And then when she’s there, hovering on the edge, you deliver the punchline.” He makes a moaning sound.
I drop my head into my hands, whispering, “You did not just do that.”
“Sally did it in the movie.”
I raise my face. “You think everything’s okay because you saw it in the movies?”
“No?” He mimes making a check mark. “No acting out the famous scene from When Harry Met Sally, and no discussion of orgasms. Not on any level, right? I mean, can we discuss the timing of orgasms? Minutes to climax? Those sorts of things?”
I blush more. I can feel the color spread from my cheeks down my skin. “You’re trying to make me blush.”
He smiles again, clearly pleased with himself. “Honestly, it’s adorable when you blush. I’ve never seen someone turn that shade of tomato before. Wait, no, it’s fire-engine red. Hold on, you’ve moved into beet territory.”
That’s because we can’t seem to stop talking about sex. And there are some parts of sex that I’m bad at. So I try to cover it up by making jokes. But I can’t tell him that. I can’t tell him that I suck at X and Y but not Z.
“Why are you blushing so much?” he presses. “Do you have something against orgasms?”
“No,” I insist.
“Do you dislike them?”
“God, no.”
“You do like them, then?”
“Of course I like them. Everyone likes them.”
“Are you sure?”
“Tom.” He’s pushing all my buttons, and I don’t know how to get him to stop. Nor do I understand how this train left the station and sped away from me.
“I embarrassed you again,” he says, his voice soft and gentle.
“Yes, because this isn’t what we’re supposed to talk about.”
Because it’s making me squirm. Because I’m thinking about sex with you and I’m not supposed to.
“Let’s talk about work. Do you want to hear more about how a thrill ride works?”
“Yes,” I say, relieved.
He leans forward. “Angle. It’s all about angle.”
I wave the napkin. “I surrender.”
* * *
When dinner arrives, I’m practically bouncing in my seat. I can’t wait to throw him this curveball and see if he can hit it.
“Your sea bass, madam,” the waiter says, sliding the plate in front of me.
He sets the ravioli in front of Tom, who raises his fork, ready to go. He gestures to my fish as the waiter leaves. “It’s the happiest fish, right?”
I exhale heavily. “Hold on.” He lifts a brow in question. “Let’s say you’re on a date.”
“Like we’re pretending to be.”
“And the food arrives.” I gesture to the plates.
“Like it has, and it looks good.”
I raise a finger. “But there’s one thing you forgot to do.”
He tilts his head, clearly perplexed.
I drop my voice, imitating a man. “Oh hey, Cassandra, I forgot to ask before I ordered, but you’re not going to break out in hives from the fish, are you? Or wait. Are you, by chance, a vegetarian?”
He groans an oh hell groan. “Is it door number one or door number two for my faux pas?”
“It’s the ‘I don’t eat anything with a face’ door. I think Cassie might be a vegetarian too.”
He puts down his fork, holds up his hands, and winks. “Don’t worry. I got this.” In a flash, he switches plates, sliding his dish across the table and taking mine. “How about them apples?”
A smile stretches across my face. “Well done, Good Will Hunting.”
“What can I say? I’m a problem solver.”
“I’m seriously impressed with your quick save.”
He blows on his fingertips. “Yeah, I’m not so terrible at this dating thing. Now, where were we?” he asks, as my fork dives into the ravioli and I take a bite. “Oh right, you were about to enjoy the best roasted corn ravioli in wine country, and I’m going to eat some happy fish.” He slices into his food, chews, and makes a Food Network host–style sound of appreciation. “Definitely the happiest fish ever.”
“Also, this is amazing,” I say once I finish a mouthful.
“See? I totally meant to do that.” He takes a drink of his wine, then slides his knife across the fish again. “Have you always been a vegetarian?”
I shake my head. “I started in high school. My mom had a terrible diet.”