Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
KENZIE
Mikael smells divine. His cologne is wafting inside my car. I can't believe he's interested in me.
Dinner? That sounds like a date.
I cautiously drive to the apartment and constantly check my mirror to reassure myself he's real.
I park in the driveway and let Sherlock out, grabbing his leash. He lunges for Mikael, who vigorously pets him.
“He loves the attention.”
“I see. It's fine, I love dogs.”
There it is—the first requirement on my list.
“Come inside. Bo is here.”
I unlock the door and take Sherlock’s leash off. He races to Bo, who is standing in the kitchen.
“Well, hello,” she says, stunned.
“Hi, Bo. How are you?”
“Great.” She gives me a questioning glance. I realize I forgot to tell her about my plans this afternoon.
Mikael pulls his phone out. “What is your favorite food, Kenzie?”
“Mm. That's tough.”
“She loves chicken cordon bleu,” Bo volunteers.
“That's true. I usually don't take the time to cook something that extravagant.”
Sherlock drinks water and settles at my feet. I pet him, “Good boy.”
He licks my hand.
“Great, I found it. I know a tiny restaurant where all the food is made by the owner.”
“Sounds great.” My stomach rumbles. I forgot to eat lunch today.
“Cool. I'll drive.”
“I can follow you. I don't want you to go out of your way,” I meekly mumble. Why do I insist on being independent? Why do I feel I’m putting him out? It would be my dream to sit next to him inside his car.
“It's no problem. I live fifteen minutes away,” he replies as he flashes me a smile that turns me inside out.
“I'm going to change. I’ll be back in a minute.” I turn to retreat into my room, mostly to hide the fact that I’m wildly attracted to him. I’d love to know how soft his lips are and have them crush into mine. Just standing next to him makes me horny.
“You're gorgeous as you are,” rolls effortlessly off his tongue. How can he say nice things like that and make it so believable?
My cheeks grow warm. He thinks I'm pretty.
“Thank you. I'll only take a minute.” I shed my coat before I walk to my room. I stare into the mirror over my dresser for a minute. I quickly grab a black sweater from my drawer and tug it over my thin shirt before entering the bathroom. I rummage through my basket of supplies. I tip the entire basket, which lands on the floor with a clatter that rivals the sound of church bells.
“Shit.” I hope they didn't hear my shit crash to the tiled floor. I take a deep breath as a familiar heaviness grips my chest.
I take a deep breath and picture Sherlock running over the pond. I gather my supplies from the floor, hastily apply foundation, and blush to my cheeks. I swipe my Autumn -colored gloss over my naked lips. It will have to do.
When I return to the kitchen, Mickael picks my coat off the counter and holds it open for me. I slide my arms into the sleeves as his cologne wafts over me. It's sensual and strikes a chord with me. It's a clean scent that leaves me reeling—my heart flutters. Normally, I'd be put off when a man stands this close to me, but not with Mikael. I drink him in before I turn to my roommate.
Bo gives me a nod of encouragement.
“Please, give Sherlock some snuggles,” I coo as I bend and kiss his head.
“Like I can resist,” she chuckles.
“Have fun, kids,” she smirks as Mikael turns toward the door.
He's a gentleman who ensures I'm safely in the car before he slides into the driver's seat.
“I hope you like this place,” he glances at me, and I melt. Is he for real? He seems concerned with me liking his pick for dinner.
“I'm sure I will. I doubt you're the type to eat inferior food,”
“What type am I?”
Oh boy. Did I say that?
“I mean, your car is spotless and your shirt is pressed. You’re different from most men. I'm sure you can get a date with any woman who catches your eye.” It’s true. Few men open doors anymore. The fact that he doles out compliments like they’re tic tacs is an understatement.
“Wow,” I reply.
“What?”
“That's scary. I didn't know I was that easy to read,” I reply. Am I that transparent?
“It's an observation,” I shrug. “You are calm and your life is in order, is what I see. You have an air of confidence that’s refreshing. So many men are overwhelmed by every little thing. What about me?“ I blurt into the warm air rushing out of the vents.
Did I say that? What am I doing?
“You?” He maneuvers the car onto a local road before his sky-blue eyes invade my space. I shift in my seat nervously.
“Yep.”
“Hmm. You are determined and passionate.”
“How do you know?”
“You care about everything you do, from Sherlock's leash to the perfect frosting on each cupcake. I would go so far as to say you're a perfectionist too.”
“Guilty.” Damn. How did he know that?
He drives a few minutes before he parks beside a red brick building with a sign that says Mamma and Pappas Italian Grill.
We walk over the sidewalk that has been shoveled and enter. The smell of fresh bread and garlic greets us.
“It smells good.” Why do I always say stupid and obvious things? I’m unoriginal.
He chuckles. “I think you'll be happy,” he winks at me.
A hostess leads us to a table for four and hands us menus when we’re seated.
An older woman approaches the table and greets us.
“Hello, Mikael. How are you?” She glances over me with discerning eyes.
Was she expecting someone else?
“Hello, Maria. I trust you have chicken cordon bleu?”
“Of course,” she replies with a twinkle in her eye.
“Great. What do you want for appetizers?” he asks me.
“I don't care. Anything.”
“I love mozzarella sticks.”
“Great, me too.”
“Let's start with that and a bottle of Chianti,” he says.
“Coming right up,” Maria replies before leaving.
“Is she the owner?”
“Yes, it's her and her husband.”
“Ah, Momma and Pappa!” I exclaim.
“Right.” A server returns with water, and she opens the wine bottle before pouring it into two glasses.
“Do you come here often?”
“Often enough. I hate cooking. What's the point when there's no one to share the food or have a conversation with?” he shrugs.
“I get it. Who wants to spend more than ten minutes on a meal that takes less than three minutes to eat—and there's no one to share it with?”
“Exactly. But you have a dog. That's more than me.”
“I'm sure you have friends,” I jest.
“I do. But they're busy.”
“I'm sure you have dates.”
“I do. But I haven't found the one I can't live without,” he murmurs while staring out the window.
“Well, if you haven't found your person, what does that say about me?” I joke. The irony isn't lost on me. If he's never been married and he looks like a model, what chance do I have?
“You could be staring at the right man now,” he says before sipping his wine.
My breath catches. Did he mean that? Is he implying he likes me?
“Maybe you met him and didn't give him a chance,” he suggests.
“I don't think so. Twenty-five years speaks volumes. I've been on dating apps. I'm tired of the boring questions. My bio title is Must Love Dogs. Why do men ask me out when they don't like animals or dog hair? What's the point?” I gush in frustration.
“I love dogs, and anyone who doesn't like Sherlock isn't worthy of you or him.”
“Thank you.” I lift my wine glass to my lips and sip. I marvel at how it clings to the side of the glass and it tastes divine. He has impeccable tastes.
The appetizer arrives, and I reach to pick up a mozzarella stick. It burns my finger. I promptly drop it.
“Ouch,” I gasp. Then I'm filled with embarrassment.
“It's hot,” he exclaims. He takes my hand in his. “What finger did you burn?”
“This one,” I bend my index finger. He leans forward to blow on it.
“It's fine. I should’ve known they’d be hot,” I protest.
“How does it feel now?” His eyes meet mine over the marinara dip.
“Fine,” I reply, dropping my eyes to the table. My hand tingles as his strong fingers continue to hold it.
His touch is exquisite, and his voice is comforting, like a lazy Sunday when I'm curled up with a good book.
Blowing on my finger was to help with the pain, but it was a turn-on. It's intimate, and I don't know how to react to our chemistry. I'm perplexed. He's different from the men I've dated, and my normal fight-or-flight response disappears. I pull my hand away, mindful of his soft and inviting touch.
What is wrong with me?
I love the feel of his soft hands on mine. Other men touched my hand, and I felt nothing. Mikael touches me, and I'm filled with desire.
I could get lost in his eyes for days. But to what end? He probably has a dozen women he texts daily.
He sips wine in the silence, while I ramble on about my life.
“I doubt I’ll find love,” I murmur. “I’m convinced Cupid is shooting blanks when it comes to me, I get the feeling he hates me.”
Mikael sputters and coughs on his drink.
“Are you okay?” I pat his back empathetically. Then, I realized he was caught off guard by my view of Cupid.
“Sure,” he croaks. “Cupid is a man?” His eyes beg for an answer.
“Woman, man. Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. So, how did you piss off Cupid?”
“I have no idea,” I deadpan as if it’s nothing. But I’m pissed at Cupid. Cupid has forsaken me. I'm so over the dating scene. The men I've dated lie about their age, their jobs, and their love for animals. Who lies about animals?”
“I'm assuming many do,” he smirks. He seems to be enjoying the trials and tribulations of my lackluster love life.
“How many dates have you been on this year?” he asks.
“It's a new year! How many do you think?”
“You’re gorgeous and funny. I’m surprised if you don't have your pick of men.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but that's not true.”
“I'm surprised.”
“How many have you dated?”
“One, but it only lasted a few weeks.”
“Wow. What was wrong with her?”
“We didn't share the same perspective on pets, either,” he chuckles.
“Ironic, isn't it?” I reply.
“It was the last straw. She lacked compassion. She was happy to go along with what we had, but she's not for me. I won’t get married until I find the woman I know I will love for the next fifty years.”
My heart beats faster than a drum solo.
He wants to get married?
“You plan to live a long time!” I tease.
“I’m optimistic What can I say?” He shrugs and I’m smitten. He’s refreshing and refreshingly honest.
Thankfully, the fried cheese has cooled enough to eat and we dive in, taking turns dipping the gooey goodness in the sauce.
“These are sinful. I'm glad there are only six. I could make a meal out of these.”
“I love them too. I also love your cupcakes.”
“Thank you.” I want to add that I made more today, hoping he stopped by, but my lips are sealed.
I'm emotionally fragile. I can't risk more rejection, especially from him.
Bo says men marry their best friends.
I should be content with friendship. It's safe, and the fact he's with me for dinner makes me feel special.