Katie
Istudy my reflection in the mirror and tilt my head slightly.
My curls are actually cooperating tonight—real curls, not the wild mess they sometimes turn into.
I twisted the top half up into a loose knot on top of my head, letting the rest of the dark brown curls fall down my back.
A little shimmery eyeshadow and black mascara make my blue eyes pop more than usual.
The outfit is simple, but it works. I’m wearing a cropped black tee and white ripped skinny jeans that hug in all the right places paired with my black Vans.
I tied a black-and-white flannel around my waist in case it gets cold later, though it mostly just makes the whole thing look a little cooler.
A small black purse hangs from my shoulder, and the gold cuff bracelet on my wrist catches the light when I move.
I turn slightly, checking the whole thing one more time.
I check my phone—five till seven. Right on cue, my doorbell rings. At least he’s punctual. When I pull the door open, he’s leaning against the frame, one shoulder braced casually against the wood.
Suddenly I understand something I hadn’t fully grasped last night. This man is tall. Really tall. When he walked me to the door before, he’d stopped at the bottom of the steps. Now he’s standing right in front of me, and I have to tilt my head all the way back to meet his eyes.
“Hi,” he says, a smirk forming.
“Hi.” I’m embarrassed at how breathy it sounds.
He straightens a little when I open the door, pushing off the frame.
Tonight he’s traded the suit for what I told him to wear—dark jeans and a dark blue V-neck T-shirt.
The fabric pulls across his chest and shoulders in a way that makes it very clear this man does not spend all his time sitting behind a desk.
Black ink and a hint of chest hair peek out at the collar.
My gaze slides down his arm. His entire right arm is covered in tattoos—black ink winding from his shoulder to his wrist. It’s a full sleeve.
Of course he has tattoos because apparently the universe decided this man wasn’t already attractive enough.
My stomach does an annoying little flip, and he notices me noticing.
“That better?” he asks, glancing down at himself.
I roll my eyes, even though it very much is. “You look all right.”
His eyes drift back up to my face, but they don’t stop there. They move higher, lingering at my hair. His expression shifts slightly.
“You never wear it down at the bar.”
My hand instinctively moves toward my curls, suddenly very aware of them spilling down my back.
“Health code.” I shrug. “Apparently bartenders are supposed to keep their hair out of the drinks.”
He steps a little closer onto the porch, close enough now that I can smell whatever cologne he’s wearing that makes my brain stop working correctly.
Then he reaches out. His fingers catch one of my curls gently.
The touch is light, but the moment his hand brushes my hair, heat floods straight up my neck.
“These,” he says quietly, letting the curl slip through his fingers, “are gorgeous.”
For half a second, my brain completely melts. Unfortunately for him, my mouth still works.
“Well, most guys at least pretend to ask before they pet my hair.”
That smirk comes back immediately.
“Would you have said yes?”
I open my mouth to answer and then close it again.
“See?” he says.
“Don’t get cocky because you followed instructions.”
His eyebrows lift. “Instructions?”
“You’re wearing jeans and a t-shirt.” I gesture to him. “I’m impressed. You listened.”
He glances down at himself again before looking back at me. “You asked.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, stepping out onto the porch and pulling the door closed behind me, “if you’d shown up in another suit, I probably would’ve shut the door in your face.”
He laughs under his breath as we walk down the steps together. When we reach the driveway, I stop short. Parked in my driveway is a sleek black sports car. I turn my head toward him.
“That’s what you drive.”
“What?” he says, completely unfazed.
I stare at it.
“It’s just a car.”
“That is not ‘just a car.’”
He walks ahead of me anyway, pulling the passenger door open. I hesitate for half a second, then slide into the seat.
When he settles into the driver’s seat, he’s still smiling.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask, turning in my seat. “No, wait, let me guess.”
I tap my chin.
“Abandoned warehouse? A remote cabin in the woods?”
Michael shakes his head with a grin on his face, and I have to hide the fact that I’m trying not to laugh now.
“No? Oh, I know!” I sit up straight. “A creepy basement with torture devices.”
He laughs.
“Yeah. That’s the one,” I say, falling back against the seat, finally smiling.
“So, this is your whole personality, huh?” he says, not looking away from the road.
I shrug. “For the most part.”
“I sort of like it,” he says as he stops at an intersection.
“Oh really? I never would’ve guessed.” I lift a brow.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “You’re funny.”
“You’re different tonight,” I say, studying him.
“How so?” he asks, his eyes cutting briefly toward me before returning to the road.
“Less serial killer,” I say. “More boy-next-door with tattoos.”
That gets him going. A big laugh leaves him.
“You have a mustache.”
“Wow,” he says. “Hard pivot.”
I shrug. “It was dark last night. The bar, the SUV, my porch. I can actually see you tonight.”
“And?” he says, turning down the main strip of Auburn Heights.
“It’s kind of hot,” I admit. “Ever worn a cowboy hat?”
He shakes his head, laughing. “What is wrong with you? And can I bottle it?”
I smirk and settle back into the seat.
“Alright, let’s get this out of the way,” I say. “How old are you? Like thirty-three? The other server, Sarah, said thirty-five.”
“Thirty-six,” he says, easing the car into a space across from the city park.
I give him a look.
“Oh.”
Another pause.
“Well…shit.”
He rests his forearms on the steering wheel and tilts his head my way.
“Is that a problem, Doll?”
“I mean, when you were graduating high school, I was probably learning how to tie my shoes,” I say. “But no. Totally fine.”
His mouth turns up in a crooked grin.
“What are you, twenty-five?”
“Twenty-four,” I correct him.
“New experience for both of us then,” he says.
“What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he says. “I’ve never dated anyone that much younger than me.”
Oh.
He gets out and comes to my side of the door. He opens it and extends his hand, and I stare at it.
“Just take it, Doll.”
Fine.
I slide my hand into his. His fingers wrap around mine, rough and warm and impossibly big. When I stand, he doesn’t let go. Instead, his fingers shift, threading through mine, and my body responds in a way it shouldn’t.
Dammit.