5. Kendall
Chapter 5
Kendall
It takes me a few seconds to realize Ash just walked away without asking me out.
What the actual fuck?
He didn’t ask for my number either. Or give me his. Or?—
Wait, do I wish he’d done any of those things?
No way. But it would’ve been great for my bruised ego.
Asshole. I bet he knew I’d turn him down, so he didn’t bother. Then again, he doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have a problem handling rejection—not when he can crook a finger at any female in his vicinity and she’d come running. Come to think of it, is it possible he’s never been rejected? If so, maybe he didn’t want to know what that feels like.
As I change in the locker room, I dwell on this topic and decide that the reason I’m so upset is that I was confident he would ask me out.
I mean, why else check if I were single, right?
That’s like leading a woman on.
Damn it.
Enough.
“Excuse me,” I say to one of the cleaners when she enters the locker room. “What do I do with the dirty clothes?”
“Throw away the socks and put the rest in here.” She points at a large hamper nearby.
Throw away the socks? Score! That means I can also keep them, so not everything is going to shit today. I walk over to a roll of plastic bags meant for wet swimwear and take one.
When I get back to my locker, I take off the socks and store them carefully in the bag, making sure to seal it tightly in order to lock in the smell. Stashing the bag in my purse, I drop the rest of my workout clothes in the designated hamper and walk through the gym with my head held high, looking for a certain someone in my peripheral vision.
Nope. He’s not training anyone else or working out by himself.
I guess that’s it.
I exit through the fancy doors onto the street and head in the direction of the subway station instead of taking another cab.
There. I can be economical too. Maybe I should text Emma and give her an update, both on the workout and on my bout of thriftiness. She thinks I’m a frivolous spender and that my parents pay for everything, but the latter couldn’t be further from the truth.
Wait a second. Is it serendipity, or is that a Manolo Blahnik store appearing out of thin air just as I’ve saved some money?
Yep. It’s a sign. I turn to head toward it—and run smack into a wall of familiar muscles that gives my whole body a zippy tingle.
“Now that’s a pretty literal interpretation of ‘bumping into someone you know,’” Ash says with a grin as I awkwardly push away. “Where are you headed in such a hurry?”
“Subway,” I lie, not willing to get into the subject of shoes or, relatedly, socks. The latter is not something I ever talk about with people.
He looks around. “Subway the sandwich place or the train?”
“The train.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the station.
“Great,” he says. “That’s where I’m headed as well. Mind if I tag along?”
“This is a public street in a free country.” I head in the direction of the station, and he falls into step next to me, his strides long and confident.
I try not to stumble over my feet. I’m viscerally aware of his tall, powerfully built body next to me, so much so my heart races and my palms sweat.
It’s like I’m a teen on her first-ever date with a boy. A skinny, geeky teen with braces who plays the sousaphone in the marching band.
Yeah, not going there.
“You mentioned being a dog parent,” I say, desperate for a distraction. “What kind of dog are we talking about?”
“Tricky question. I foster whenever I can, but I also have a corgi rescue who lives with me on a permanent basis.” He hands me his phone that displays a picture of an adorable short-legged pup. “His name is Sir Eats-Minced-Meat-a-Lot, or Ems for short.”
I almost drop his phone. “I have a friend named Emma, and I call her Ems too.”
As he takes his cell back, our fingers brush, and the resulting tingle makes me momentarily dizzy and breathless. “I knew we would find something in common,” he murmurs, slanting me a glance. “Though I didn’t expect it would be this.”
I try to get my breathlessness under control. “Did I mention that she’s a cat person? I think that makes it worse.”
He stops, his face twisted in mock horror. “Don’t tell me you’re a cat person as well.”
“I think I prefer canines to felines.”
“Whew,” he says and resumes walking. “I was just about to cross the street.”
“Don’t be too happy.” My lips twist in an involuntary smile. “The margin of said preference is tiny.”
“That’s because you haven’t met a dog like Ems—or Sir Ems, as I’ll call him from now on, to avoid confusion.”
I smile wider. “Sir Ems? That has a very noble ring to it.”
“Corgis are very popular with British royalty. So that part makes perfect sense.”
“Shouldn’t he be Lord Ems then?”
He laughs, and the resulting sound does to my ears what his touch did to my skin. “Sorry to change the topic,” he says, his voice still filled with amusement, “but have you ever been to that place?” He gestures at a charming coffee shop a few feet away.
I shake my head.
“I want to go there. Do you want to join me?” He accompanies the question with a panty-dropping smile. “They have the best espresso in the city.”
My heart starts racing like I’ve already imbibed a gallon of espresso. “The best in the city? That’s a bold statement.”
He nods sagely. “Let me get one for you, so you can decide if it’s worth that honor.”
“Okay.” Crap. Did I just agree to a date?
He leads me to the place, and it turns out to be the kind of fancy café where you have to sit down and order the coffee from a menu. Or, more accurately, this is a French bistro that serves hot drinks and pastries alongside savory foods such as Croque Madame and Croque Monsieur.
“What can I get you to drink?” asks the waiter without even a hint of a French accent.
“Chamomile,” I say almost at the same time as Ash says, “Mint tea.”
“Sure.” The waiter hands us menus and leaves.
As soon as we’re alone, Ash arches an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted coffee.”
“I thought you did too.”
“Nope. I told you that I was headed here, and that they have the best espresso in the city. You assumed I wanted to drink it, but you know what they say about that word.”
I narrow my eyes. “Something about asses, me, and you?”
“Your ass got a good workout today.”
“No thanks to you being an ass.”
“Sticks and stones.”
“Why don’t you want coffee?” I suspect it’s the same reason for both of us, but I don’t want to “assume.”
He gestures at the large clock on the wall. “I don’t consume caffeine after five.”
Yep. “Me neither. Not unless I want to be up all night long.”
“All. Night. Long.” His eyes heat up. “If I change my order, will you?”
Is that an innuendo? “I’m sticking with chamomile. I’ll need its calming properties if I’m to spend any more time in your company.”
“Below the belt, again.” He opens the menu. “And this after we’ve found a second thing we seem to have in common.”
My stomach rumbles before I can reply.
He flashes his white teeth in a grin. “A good workout can work up an appetite.”
I open the menu in sullen silence and scan everything, unsure of what I want.
“I’ve had the ratatouille here,” he says. “And the vegetable crêpe. Both were delicious.”
I look up. “Are you vegan or something?”
If so, it’s odd that he didn’t tell me about it in the first five seconds of our acquaintance.
“I just like nutritious food, which means eating a lot of vegetables.”
Well then… “If I get a crêpe, it will be with triple cheese, double every meat, and zero veggies.”
I say it just to needle him. I actually like vegetables and eat pretty healthy myself.
He shrugs. “What you order is your prerogative. You’re not my client, and you didn’t ask me to help you eat better.”
The waiter comes back with our teas. “Do you know what you want to order?”
Ash gets the ratatouille, and despite what I said a second ago, when I order my crêpe, I ask for just one layer of cheese, a single meat, and fines herbes .
“Aren’t herbs vegetables?” Ash asks as soon as we’re alone again. “If so, you have more than zero veggies in your dish.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You only use a little bit of an herb, but a lot when it’s a vegetable.”
He smirks. “So… if someone eats only a little bit of say, spinach, for them, it becomes an herb?”
Damn him. Now I want spinach in my crêpe.
“Excuse me,” I say before chasing after the waiter to adjust my order.
When I come back, Ash looks like the cat who ate the canary—which tells me he definitely overheard me with the waiter.
“I have a craving for spinach,” I mumble.
His smirk widens. “I take full credit for that. It’s only been a short time, but I’m already a good influence on you. Spinach has a ton of vitamin K, which, among other things, helps with coagulation.”
“Coagulation, as in ability to heal wounds? Are you planning to cut me or something?”
He chokes on his mint tea. “That got dark quickly.”
I blow on my chamomile. “It’s a risk you take when you squabble about definitions.”
“You asked if herbs were vegetables, not me.” He sets his cup down. “I have a better dilemma for you. Isn’t the crêpe you ordered basically a quesadilla?”
Huh. “No, a quesadilla is closer to a grilled cheese. Next thing you’ll be asking is whether tacos are sandwiches.”
He gasps. “Tacos are not sandwiches… but hot dogs are tacos, for sure.”
I snort. “And Pop-Tarts are a type of calzone.”
He rewards me with that devastating smile of his. “Coffee is bean soup if you think about it. Cereal is also soup, or maybe even a smoothie?”
My stomach rumbles again. “Crêpes are thin pancakes.”
“Pizza is an unfolded taco.”
Before I can come up with more, the waiter comes back with the ratatouille.
“Want to try it?” Ash asks.
If I succumb to temptation, this will feel even more like a date. Then again, I’m starving, so I can’t help snatching a bite. Nor can I help the moan that escapes my lips as the delicious flavors explode on my tongue.
When I open my eyes—which I didn’t realize were closed—Ash is looking at me with a peculiarly intense expression.
I clear my throat. “Is ratatouille a stew or a casserole? And if it is a stew, is it essentially a thick soup and therefore a type of smoothie?”
Before Ash can answer, my crêpes arrive.
When we’re alone again, I taste the crêpes, and another moan escapes my lips.
“That good?” he asks, staring at my mouth.
I nod enthusiastically. “Want a taste?”
“Yes.” His eyes glint dangerously. “I really want a taste.”
Not sure what possesses me to do it, but I cut a piece, and instead of putting it on his plate like a sane person, I feed it to him, as if we were role-playing an emperor and his concubine.
Holy crap. Watching a guy chew and swallow should not be this arousing. Except it is. So much so that I wonder how crazy it would be if I were to suggest we take this food to go and head over to my place.
No. Way too crazy. Even if this is a date, it would be our first, and I don’t have sex until I get to know a person.
“Delicious,” he murmurs.
I blow on my chamomile tea again. My plan is to gulp down the tea as soon as it cools and pray that it calms my overactive libido. Clearly, just reminding myself that men are dogs isn’t cutting it anymore.
“So,” he says. “Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
That makes it official. This is a date.
“Like what?” I ask, my heart pounding at the realization.
He shrugs. “Do you have any siblings?”
“Yeah. An older brother, Cameron. He’s the reason boys were afraid to ask me out in high school.” At least that’s what I tell myself because it’s better than the other possibility: that no one wanted to date the awkward geek from the marching band. “How about you?”
He smiles. “A younger sister, Jordan. She probably has the same complaint about me that you have about your brother, but in my defense, I’ve only beaten up one of her boyfriends, and the asshole deserved it.”
If Jordan had boyfriends, plural, then it’s not like my situation at all, but I’m not admitting that.
“Are you a native New Yorker?” I ask.
I feel like he isn’t, but I’m not sure why.
“Nope. What about you?”
I shake my head. “I grew up in Connecticut.”
His eyes twinkle. “Why do people from Connecticut always give their state as the place where they’re from?”
I roll my eyes. “And where are you from?”
“Boston. Notice how I didn’t say ‘Massachusetts.’”
That tracks. He doesn’t have the signature accent, but something must’ve given him away. “When I tell people I grew up in Berlin, they assume I’m talking about the one in Germany, not Connecticut.”
“Ich falle aus allen Wolken,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “Did you just put a curse on me in German?”
He grins. “It means, ‘I didn’t expect that’ or something similar. The literal translation is ‘I fall from all clouds.’”
Huh. “You’re German?”
“No. I’m a European mutt, with maybe one percent German blood—if that. But I did take German back in college.”
So he did go to college. Called it.
“What about you?” he asks.
“I’m also a mutt. According to a DNA test, I have some Russian, Native American, English, German, and Irish in me.”
“Do you know any other languages?”
“I took Spanish in school, but don’t ask me to say anything.”
He flashes a white grin. “I wouldn’t be so cruel.”
Damn it. He’s done nothing sensual in the last minute, nor has he said anything profound, but I’m falling deeper and deeper into this romantic rabbit hole of a date.
Grabbing my now-cooled chamomile tea, I gulp it in desperation.
This is it.
I see two unequal options playing out in front of me. One—the less likely—is that this tea will magically calm me down.
The other—and way more likely—is that I’ll end up in his bed by the end of the night.