Undone, Love Times Three

One

Sylvie

The small café next door to the library is busy with only a couple of spare tables. Looking around, I don’t see any guys sitting alone, so figure I’ve arrived first. My palms are sweating and despite using a ton of deodorant, my armpits feel a little damp.

Way to make a good impression on a first date. Do I have time to go to the bathroom and freshen up? What if I do and he thinks I’m not coming and leaves? The alternative is meeting him with sweaty hands. Oh God. Why am I doing this to myself?

Because it’s time.

That is what everyone has been telling me. It’s what I’ve been telling myself for a couple of years now. I’ve just never got around to it. I’m too busy, my career comes first, men are a pain in the ass. All valid reasons.

But, my career doesn’t keep me warm at night. It isn’t there to hold me when I’ve had a crappy day. To make me dinner, take me out dancing. Or… that other stuff. The sex stuff.

And it doesn’t buy me flowers and chocolates on Valentine’s Day. Even when I’m surrounded by flowers, it’s not the same as someone buying them for you.

God, when was the last time I had sex? I’ll never admit I can recall down to the minute when someone last peeled my panties off me and brought me to the heights every woman dreams of.

Although it wasn’t memorable. It’s only when you go without sex for so long that you remember when and where it last happened. Even when it wasn’t that good.

We were clinging on to something that was no longer there. Doing that thing where you think intimacy can save a relationship.

Enough of that. He belongs in the past. It’s time to focus on the present. And that I need to break this dry spell. I’m not getting any younger after all. Let’s just say I’m just shy of half a decade away from the big four-oh and leave it at that.

Dating apps are a nightmare. I tried three and hated every single one of them. They were full of men fishing for sex, some of them married. I’ve never got past the chatting on the app stage. Always chickening out when men suggested we meet. Especially if there had been any flirty banter.

I’m not a prude, but I have a very good radar for bullshit. It was obvious when guys just wanted sex.

Then, my friend told me about this new dating app. It’s not a traditional dating app. There are no pictures, and you only get one hour to talk before you agree to meet or not.

It’s kind of risky and I freaked out about it, but they have such excellent reviews and a high success rate. The joining up process was long. Lots of checks and questionnaires. I figure if someone got to where they wanted to chat, they had to be serious. No one looking for a fuck buddy would go through such a rigorous application.

Okay, I’ve been standing here like an idiot for about five minutes now, far too long to be normal.

Surreptitiously wiping my palms on my jacket, I go to find a table. Maybe we should have set up some kind of signal to recognize one another. Like a rose on my lapel, or a book on the table? I’ve watched far too many romance movies.

Fear grips me now. What if he doesn’t show up? Worse still, what if he does, sees me, and leaves?

I’m not a troll. It’s hard to objectively score yourself, though. Maybe I’m a seven or eight? I look after my appearance, blind date pits notwithstanding. My dark brown hair is curled and bouncy, my make-up neutral but classic, and I’m wearing a knit dress with knee boots and a belted blazer. Casual, but not too casual.

Someone stops near the table, and I look up.

Holy shit. My jaw drops, my mouth goes dry. This is not him.

This guy is a twelve. He’s perfect. His hair is dark, all wind tousled and curling at his nape. He has the perfect amount of stubble. You know, the kind that feels good between your thighs without scratching the hell out of your skin?

His eyes are like two dark pools, the pupil blending into his irises. And his lashes, man, I’d kill for those, long, curled and dark. He’s wearing a leather jacket and jeans and is carrying a rose.

More like twisting it, the stem has snapped near the end. That makes my heart weep a little.

He glances down at me as he pauses, frowns, and looks around again.

My heart plummets. He doesn’t like me. Oh God. I’m going to puke.

“Alison?”

“Uh,” my cheeks flame and I’m speechless for a moment. Oh no, this isn’t Henry, the man I agreed to meet. We at least shared our names in our one-hour chat. Mine is most definitely not Alison.

This is a huge mix-up.

He grins, looking a little sheepish. Wow, he has dimples. I’m about to tell him I’m not Alison because I’m not. He’s expecting to meet her, not me. Before I can open my mouth again, he pulls back the chair and sits down.

He holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ryan.”

I have no choice but to hold out my hand. He grins again and I wish like hell I was Alison. She’s a lucky woman.

“Hope you haven’t been waiting long. There was a line to get into the parking garage. I ran two blocks to get here on time.”

And he ran here to meet her. God, I hate Alison. We can’t go on with him thinking I’m someone else. Also, Henry could walk in any second, and he wouldn’t know I’m the person he’s looking for because I’m not a lone woman.

“No, not long,” I say. “Actually-”

“Hi guys, what can I get you?” A young man in an apron is standing beside the table.

“What have you got on today?” Ryan asks, smiling at the server. His dimples are even more pronounced now.

The server reels off the specials. Ryan turns to me, waiting. Oh, he wants me to order first. That is sweet. What am I thinking? I need to tell him who I am. Or who I’m not.

“The lobster rolls are great here,” Ryan says, sensing I’m not sure what to order.

Or say.

“Um, sounds lovely.”

“We’ll take two,” Ryan says to the server. “And I’ll take a hot chocolate. Alison?”

Tongue tied, I nod and give a smile I hope conveys I’ll take the same. Not only am I sitting here lying to this handsome, charming man, I’ve also lost the ability to talk.

The server leaves us. Ryan sets the menus back in the little stand on the table and rests his elbows on the table, looking over at me.

“Sorry about the rose, total cliché, but figured it would make things easier,” he looks around, a little frown marring his brow.

My heart pounds. Shit, was Alison supposed to bring a rose? My head turns left and right as I look for a lone, gorgeous woman, with a rose on the table.

If he was late and she isn’t here yet… No, don’t pretend to be someone else. You’ve done that far too much over the years. It’s time to be me.

“The guys at the firehouse really gave it to me about this,” he says with an embarrassed smile.

“You’re a firefighter?”

He frowns again. “You knew that,” he says.

“I did, sorry. It’s been a day,” I shrug, like it’s just so rough being me.

Oh God, stop talking. Tell him you’re not Alison! A firefighter. She is so lucky.

His frown turns to concern. “It’s not because of the date, right?”

“No… well, maybe a little. Just nervous, I guess,” I trail off. That is not telling him the truth.

He smiles again. Those dimples pop. “You don’t need to be nervous. I know we don’t know a lot about each other. And blind dates are daunting, but this is the fun part. Getting to know one another, enjoying great food and the hot chocolate here is to die for.”

I gulp and nod. The door opens, and a woman comes in. My eyes drop to her hands, but she isn’t holding a rose. A man comes in behind her, putting his hand on the small of her back, guiding her to the counter.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ryan asks.

I feel sick. Opening my mouth to tell him, I’m foiled again as the server arrives with our hot chocolate. Oh wow, they look good. There is a swirl of cream on top with chocolate dusted over it and small marshmallows.

“This is another cliché, I guess,” he holds the mug in his hand. It takes up most of the surface of the cup. His hands are so big. “But what do you do?”

“I own a florist, am a florist,” I say nervously. My armpits are really going to town now.

“You own the shop? That’s amazing. Is it somewhere I might know?”

“Maybe,” I lift my mug. We live in a smallish city. There are three other florists. I’ve done my homework. And we have a better Google rating. “Love in Bloom.”

“Oh yeah, over on fifteenth, I know it. I might have even been in there a time or two. Don’t remember seeing you, though.”

“I work in the back a lot,” I shrug. “Making the bouquets, taking orders. I have a couple of staff who work in the shop itself.”

“That will be why, then. What made you get into… floristry? Is that a word?” he laughs.

Hells bells. If I was standing, my knees would go weak, and I’d be a puddle. “It is. It’s the descriptor for the type of industry. My job title is florist.”

“Do you study for that?”

“Yes, I did a couple of years in community college learning horticulture, but flowers have always been my passion. It’s something I got from my grandma. She owned a florist of her own a few years ago, but when she retired, she sold that one.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Not really. She’s been happier than I’ve seen in years now that she’s no longer working. And it allowed her to invest in my store.” I pause. Why am I telling him something so personal? I’m so at ease with him. That’s why. “It’s smaller premises. People get a lot of flowers online.”

“That’s true of a most things these days.”

“We still do good business,” I smile.

“It’s a business that will never go out of style.”

“Like firefighting?”

“Like that, yeah. You can’t get that online,” he huffs with a laugh.

I take a sip of the drink once I get through all the cream.

Ryan laughs as I lower the mug. He looks at my mouth.

“It’s all over my face, isn’t it?” I duck my head.

He grins and reaches over with a napkin. Disappointment floods me when he doesn’t wipe it away himself. And suck it off his finger. My blood pressure spikes and my cheeks heat.

Wow, I should not be having these thoughts about someone else’s date. What the hell is wrong with me?

I have to tell him the truth.