6. Dutton #2
She blinks at me as though she’s not quite sure what to make of me. I get it. I’m known for being blunt. Sometimes that means calling out my teammates when they do dumb shit, and sometimes it means telling a stranger she’s beautiful and asking her out on a date before I even know her name.
“You’ve got to tell me your name, unless you want me to keep calling you by your handle. Big fan of murder podcasts, I’m guessing?
“No way,” she says quickly. “I’m a hair stylist. So, you know, curl up, like with a curling wand. And dye, like hair color.”
I nod as it clicks into place. “You’re a stylist? Where do you work?”
“I just started at Mane Street. It’s a few blocks down on the corner. I’m only part-time, though, because I’m also a student at Bainbridge. You know that, of course, since that’s why you’re here.”
Her rambling is adorable, and I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe anything in my entire life. “Thanks for agreeing to meet. Something came up suddenly yesterday, and I didn’t realize how hard it would be to get the notes. If you hadn’t agreed to meet me, I’d have been screwed.”
“It’s fine,” she says, waving me off. “Everybody needs help sometimes. Do you want to grab yourself a drink while I pull up my notes? I can share them with you, and after you look them over, you can let me know if you have any questions.”
I have plenty of questions, and they range from Are you free tonight? All the way to Will you marry me? I might be a fool for love, but I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut, at least for now. “Can I get you another drink? Or something to eat?”
Her cheeks are flushed again, no doubt because her skin is the color of porcelain.
I begin thinking about all the other things I could say or do to cause the same reaction, but she drags my mind out of the gutter when she shakes her head and tells me she doesn’t want anything else.
Dammit. Is it bad that I was hoping she’d want a cake pop so I could watch her put her lips around it?
Yeah, that’s definitely bad. There’s something wrong with me, but I’m in no hurry to find the cure.
When I settle back at the table with a cup of caffeine I probably don’t need, she eyes me warily.
“You drink your coffee plain, Dustin?” she asks, her sweet voice laced with a mix of pity and horror.
“Yep. I like my coffee pitch dark, just like my soul. And why did you call me Dustin?”
Running a manicured finger over my cardboard cup, she glances up at me, her eyes luminous under thick lashes. “That’s what it says here. Dustin .”
I shrug. “It’s close. I’m Dutton, and I promise I’m not quite as self-centered as my handle suggests.”
Her smile hits me right where my heart supposedly rests beneath my chest. “That’s good to know. I’m Bridgette, and we should probably get started since I’ve got to be at work soon.”
I open the doc she shared, and I’m once again stunned. The whole damn thing is color-coded. There are tabs, comments and digital sticky notes with annotations.
“I know,” she says, sounding a little embarrassed. “I tend to go a little overboard, I guess, but that’s just how my brain works. I need to take a lot of notes to fully process the information.
My cursor hovers over the section where she’s listed the required readings. “You hyperlinked these?”
“I think it’s easier than opening a million new files. It drives me crazy if I have more than three or four tabs open at any given time.”
“This is awesome,” I say sincerely. “You could probably sell these and make a shit-to of money.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s highly unethical,” she says, unable to hide her smile.
“But I'm glad you find them useful. Is there anything that seems confusing? I struggled a bit with the slides on facilitated networks, so there are a ton of sticky notes for that section. I actually found a video that was helpful, too. I linked it.”
She might have a million digital sticky notes, but everything is so clear and organized that it all makes sense.
There’s no way anyone reading this could have questions, but I’m not telling her that.
“I can’t think of anything right now, but there’s a lot to go through. I really do appreciate your help.”
“It’s no problem,” she assures me. “I can give you my number if questions crop up while you’re reading through everything. Or, you could just use WolfChat. That’s probably easier. We didn’t have anything like that at beauty school, so I’m used to?—.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, reaching my hand out.
“Let me put my number in.” When she slides the phone over, I pick it up and punch in my digits.
I’m tempted to put my name in as Future Husband or Boyfriend Material, at the very least, but I refrain.
It’s probably best to let the crazy show in small increments rather than unleashing it all at once, so I type in Dutton James, adding my middle name out of habit.
One of my exes was a jersey chaser, and since then, I’ve learned to be a little wary.
I’m well aware that I don’t have the most sparkling personality, but when a woman agrees to go on a date with me, I don’t want her decision to be based on the uniform I’m wearing or that I went in the first round of the draft.
And, sure, you can bring up the fact that Bridgette thought my offer of a date was a joke.
Or, that I’m the one who’s two seconds away from scribbling the words Bridgette Wagner in my damn notebook.
Out of the two of us, I’m clearly the crazy one.
The chances of Bridgette being a gold-digger or a jersey chaser are small, but it’s probably better to be safe than sorry.
She checks her phone for the time and starts packing up her bag, so I do the same.
When we step out into the warm September sun, she points in the opposite direction of campus.
Bridgette shoulders her big-ass tote bag and gives me a wave.
“I’ve got to get to work, but it was nice meeting you, Dutton.
Just give me a shout if you have any questions. ”
“Thanks, seriously. This is even better than I could have hoped for, and I'm grateful. Let me take you out to say thank you.”
Immediately, I know I’ve said the wrong thing. An invisible shield goes up around her as she pastes on a fake smile. “That’s not necessary. I made the notes for myself anyway, so it was no trouble to share them with you.” Without another word, she turns toward the salon and away from me.
And yes, I watch her as she goes. She’s wearing one of those wraparound dresses that ties in the front, and the way her full hips sway from side to side as she walks has me mesmerized.
I’ve got to get back to campus for a team meeting, so make my way to the corner and hit the button at the crosswalk. The neon sign tells me I’ll have to wait fifteen seconds to cross, and that’s fine by me. There’s a lot I can accomplish in fifteen seconds.
Dutton: You said I could message you if I had a question, right?
Bridgette: Sure. What’s up?
Dutton : Where should we go on our date?