Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Second Last First Date: Nash.
I had managed to calm myself down, pushing thoughts of coffins, death, and Coleman—in no particular order—right down into the deep recesses of my mind before I got out of my car to meet date number two for the day.
When I’d reached my apartment after my hasty retreat, my nosy and annoying older brother, Ryan, had quizzed me on my date.
“That sounds like it totally sucked,” he’d said with a chuckle as he plopped himself down on the sofa next to where I had been trying to recover from my ordeal.
“Not the best,” I’d replied, crossing my arms defensively.
“Ah, sis. Sorry about that.”
I rolled my own. “Sure, you are.”
I was about as convinced as my high school math teacher when I’d told her my completed homework assignment had “accidentally” fallen into the blender with a handful of blueberries and yogurt.
“No, I am. Really. Of course, finding that happily ever after you and your friends are looking for is never going to happen. But still, you don’t want a bad date.”
Had I mentioned my brother had become a total cynical pain in the ass since his breakup?
In my car, I pushed Ryan’s negativity out of my head. He may have been in a “relationships suck” state of mind, but I was looking for Mr. Right, and I wasn’t going to let him drag me down.
I glanced at my watch. I had a few minutes to spare before I met my second Last First Date. I pulled my phone out of my purse and pressed the Facebook app. I bit my lip. Should I check it ? Before I could stop myself, I typed in “Eddie Sutcliffe,” my belly flip-flopping the instant his gorgeous smiling face filled my screen. I pressed “About” and scanned the screen. When my eyes settled on the words “Engaged,” I quickly switched my phone off and slipped it back in my purse.
No change there.
I checked my reflection in the mirror and climbed out of my car. A second Last First Date called for a new outfit, and I was dressed in my favorite pair of skinny jeans, a cute pink T-shirt, a floppy hat on my head to protect me from the summer sun, and the “sensible shoes” my date had asked me to wear.
After a short walk, I arrived at the seaside park we were due to meet at. I looked around. The place was full of people with their happy, yappy dogs, throwing sticks and balls. I smiled to myself. They were having the time of their lives, running, jumping, playing. I watched a newly arrived dog run over and sniff another dog’s butt. They were so obvious in their interest in one another: no subterfuge, just a straight out “I want to sniff your butt. Want to sniff mine?” approach, where every dog knew where she or he stood.
Why couldn’t it be as simple for us humans? Not that I was into butt sniffing or anything, you understand.
I scanned the park, looking for Nash Campbell, Mr. Construction Worker, my second date of the day. The good news was, however, there was no sign of Cassie, Paige, or Bailey here. That was a good sign: I could have this second date of the day in peace and quiet.
“Marissa!” I heard a voice call. I looked over to a group of beautiful pohutukawa trees in full bloom—New Zealand’s Christmas tree, as they were known, thanks to their red flowers appearing in December each year. I spotted Nash waving at me beneath them, a grin on his Jon Snow face.
I waved back and navigated my way through the dogs and their owners, reaching his side a few moments later.
“Hey,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. He put his hand on my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. That was two cheek kisses today and counting.
“Hi, Nash,” I replied, returning his grin.
“Looking good!” he exclaimed, taking in my casual attire. “I like the jeans and T-shirt thing. It’s great to see you out of your clothes,” he said.
I shot him a quizzical look. Did he really just say it was good to see me naked? I glanced down at my T-shirt. No “Nipplegate” situation, nothing where it shouldn’t be. I looked back up at him, my brows knitted together.
His grin dropped. “No no no no no. I mean, it’s not that I want to see you without your clothes on . . . well, I do, but . . . you look good in different clothes. That’s what I mean.” He scrunched up his face, regarding me through squinted eyes.
“Err, thanks?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m pretty smooth, aren’t I?”
“‘Smooth’ is probably not the word I’d use, but you’re cute, so you can get away with it.”
“Cute is good. I’m happy with that.”
I smiled at him. He must be nervous. Either that or I hadn’t noticed he could put his foot so firmly in his mouth when we’d met that day outside the construction site.
“Shall we start again?” he asked, his face hopeful.
Before I had the chance to reply, a dog shot past me, clipping me with his tail. “Ow!” I called out, more from shock than pain.
“Dexter!” Nash yelled in a loud voice beside me, making me jump. I watched as the whippy-tailed black dog stopped in his tracks, turned, and came bounding over toward us, his tongue hanging out of the side of his mouth. He looked like he was in complete and utter doggy heaven.
“Good boy,” Nash said, squatting down next to him and patting him firmly on the side, Dexter’s tail wagging so hard it could spin off. Nash looked up at me and said, “This is Dexter. Dexter meet Marissa.”
I wasn’t quite sure what the protocol was when meeting a dog, so I gave him a tentative pat on the head and said, “Hello, Dexter.” The dog butted my hand and proceeded to lick it before I had the chance to steal it away, leaving a slick of dog slobber on my palm.
Nash didn’t seem to notice—or care. “He likes you.”
“Great,” I replied, wishing I’d thought to bring some hand sanitizer.
Nash straightened up. “Here,” he said, holding a long, hot pink plastic stick with a tennis ball sitting in a holder at the end. “Take this and throw.”
“Okay.” I took the stick and noticed as Dexter’s excited attention was immediately directed at me. I had seen these things before, but never actually used one. Dexter’s eyes were trained on me as though he and I were the only creatures on the face of the planet—which could almost be romantic if it wasn’t for the fact Dexter was a dog . I raised the stick behind my head and threw it with all my might. As soon as it was out of my hand, Dexter darted after it. I turned to Nash, happy with my efforts.
“Ah, you’re not meant to throw the whole thing,” Nash said, shaking his head. “Just the ball.”
I bit my lip. “Oh.” So, now it was my turn to be humiliated? I looked over on the grass to where Dexter was pawing at the ball, still stuck in the ball holder at the end of the stick. “Sorry.”
“No worries,” Nash said, walking toward Dexter. He picked the contraption up and threw the ball. I watched as it sailed through the air, Dexter sprinting after it, expertly avoiding any people or dogs in his path.
“You’re not a dog person, are you?” Nash said.
I shrugged. “Actually, I really like dogs, it’s just I haven’t had one since I was kid. I’d like to again one day, though.” I watched a couple of small, fluffy dogs dart around one another, yapping excitedly, and couldn’t help but smile. “Dexter seems . . . nice.”
Nash chuckled, clearly recovered from his “It’s good to see you out of your clothes” comment earlier. “He certainly is ‘nice,’ as you put it. He’s a rescue dog.”
“Oh? Wow.” I had a sudden image of Nash, dressed in sexy mountaineering clothes, finding Dexter as a sweet little puppy, cowering under a rock, and my heart melted.
“You see that’s why I wanted to bring you here. Dex is a really big part of my life, and I’m involved in a dog rescue organization.”
“That’s so great,” I said, looking at Nash through fresh eyes. Sure, I’d known he was into dogs from his social media profile, but this was his passion. And it looked good on him.
“Thanks,” he beamed at me. “Dex was my first dog, but I’ve got some more right now, too.”
“More?” I asked, my eyebrows raised in alarm. “How many, exactly?”
“Well, there’s Gretel. She’s at home.”
“Okay. So, you have Dexter and Gretel.”
Two dogs? That seemed reasonable to me. Not weird. I’d had enough weird for one day.
“And there are the puppies, too.” Dexter dropped the ball at Nash’s feet. He picked it up with his ball holder and threw it again, the dog scampering after it.
“You have puppies?” I put my hand to my chest. “Aw! I love puppies. How many?”
“Five.”
Back up the bus, Nash had seven dogs? Was it just me or was that a little over the top, perhaps even dog-obsessive?
“Wow, you must go through the slippers,” I said, unsettled.
Was there such a thing as a weird dog guy, like there was a weird cat lady?
He chuckled. “Yeah.”
“So, you like dogs, huh?” I said, trying to push the idea of Nash being some kind of bizarre dog-obsessive from my head.
Of course, I knew the answer to this question. I had stalked him, after all. And then there was the fact he had seven dogs. If he didn’t like them, he’d have to be a special kind of weird.
Nash furrowed his brow. “Yes,” he replied as though I hadn’t noticed we were a) at a dog park with his dog, and b) he’d just told me about his gaggle of canines.
Right on cue, Dexter bounded over to us and dropped the slobbery old tennis ball at Nash’s feet once again. In one fluid movement, he scooped the ball up in the ball holder and threw it. And this routine was repeated again, and again, and again.
“What got you into rescuing dogs?” I asked after an awkward silence in which I tried not to think about how bad Nash’s house must smell. I mean, five puppies? Don’t they need to be house-trained? There must be puppy poop and pee everywhere . Euw!
“I grew up with dogs, so I’ve always loved them. A while back, I decided I wanted to do something more meaningful than managing construction sites. Don’t get me wrong, I like my job, but I love dogs, and I’m happy to help them out any way I can.”
The way he put it didn’t make him sound weird at all. In fact, I liked it. “You have a passion and you’re pursuing it. I admire that. A lot of people spend their whole lives not following their passion.”
He threw the ball—yet again—for Dexter, regarding me out of the corner of his eye. “What’s the passion you’re not pursuing?”
Momentarily surprised at such a direct question, particularly from a man holding a large hot pink ball throwing device in his hand, I bumbled my reply. “Oh . . . umm . . . nothing much.”
He turned to face me. “Come on, there must be something.”
My tummy tied into a knot. There was something, but I hadn’t talked to anybody about it before. I pulled a face, hoping he’d get the message.
He didn’t. “Shall I guess?”
I shrugged.
“You want to run off and join the circus so you can share your lion-taming skills with the world.”
“Close, but no banana,” I replied with a small smile.
“Oh, I’ve got it! You’ve got your name down for reassignment surgery, just waiting to become ‘Malcolm’?”
I whacked him playfully on the arm. “No! And thanks a lot.”
He shrugged. “I’m just trying to make up for that whole embarrassing thing about your clothes earlier,” he replied.
I sniggered, enjoying the feeling of closeness our banter was generating. “By suggesting I want to be a man?”
“Hey, it’s your passion, honey. I’m just trying to work out what it is since you refuse to tell me.”
Softening, I replied, “If I tell you, will you promise not to share it with anyone and drop the whole ‘Malcolm’ thing?”
“I promise.” He placed his hand over his heart, and I immediately noticed the outline of his firm pecs under his T-shirt. I bit my lip.
Not bad, not bad at all.
Before I had the chance to back out, I said, “I want to sing.” I waited for his response, wondering why I was opening up to this guy so early on in the date—but liking it at the same time.
“Sing, huh? As in join a choir type of singing or go on The Voice ?” he asked.
“Neither. Just . . . sing.”
“That sounds straightforward enough to me. In the shower, maybe?”
“Are you going back to that whole ‘naked’ thing, again?” I joked, although this time it was fun, a little risqué , as the French would have it.
Nash threw the ball for Dexter—would this game ever get old for that dog?—and looked off into the distance. “Hmm, let me think. Marissa singing in the shower.”
Again, I whacked him playfully on the arm. “Enough, already!”
“Sorry, but you are super hot and I am just a man.”
I shook my head, laughing. This is going so well! Nash was cute and fun and flirty, and all the things I had hoped in a Last First Date.
Other than the dog slobber, that was.
“What’s stopping you?” he asked, punctuating my thoughts.
“Singing in the shower? I already do that!”
“No,” he said with a chuckle, “what’s stopping you pursuing singing, like say, for an audience?”
Me , was the simple answer. I hadn’t always been the slim, confident woman I was today. No way, José. Not too many years ago, guys like Nash and Coleman and Blaze wouldn’t have given me a second glance. I was shy, totally lacking in confidence, and I was a little on the plump side of the equation. Heck, who was I kidding? I was F. A. T. fat. And I hated it. Some women embraced their size, loving their curves. Like Bailey. She was curvy and looked like some sort of Italian screen goddess from the fifties. Not me. I had been a major comfort eater, and every time I looked in the mirror, I wanted to slap my chubby face. Hard.
Then, once I’d graduated high school and was studying at college, I decided it was time I changed—no one was going to do it for me. I didn’t want to spend my life hating what I saw. So, I got into running and I cleaned up my diet. There was no overnight, miraculous change, no “big reveal.” It was gradual, my mindset about myself changing slowly as my body became stronger, healthier. I began to like what I saw when I looked in the mirror.
But, to this day, I still knew, deep inside of me, that shy, overweight, unhappy girl lay dormant, ready to rear her head.
Rather than delving into my most private of thoughts about myself, in response to Nash’s question about what was stopping me, I simply shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”
“Then there’s nothing standing in your way, right?”
Ah, if only it were that easy.
“I guess. So,” I began, changing the subject quick-smart, “shall I give the throw-y thingamajig another try?”
“Sure. It’s called a ‘ball thrower,’” he said, his fingers in quotation marks, “on account of the fact it throws a ball.”
I shook my head. “Very funny.”
Dexter dropped the slimy, utterly gross, discolored ball at Nash’s feet once more. I leaned in front of him and scooped it up with the ball thrower, Dexter’s attention immediately focusing on me. This time, when I threw the ball, I held onto the pink stick and watched as the ball flew through the air, Dexter scrambling at a rate of knots across the park in hot pursuit.
“Nice,” Nash said, watching the ball. “That one might make it to the sea.”
“Well then, let’s hope your dog can swim.”
Nash chuckled. “Do you want to have some lunch? We can head to my local. They know Dex there.”
After the brunch I’d had earlier in the day with Coleman the flirty mortician—wow, that was today ?—I hadn’t thought I would be hungry for hours. But my tummy rumbled at the mention of lunch, and I had really enjoyed the date with Nash so far, so I nodded with a smile. “That sounds wonderful.”
Nash called Dexter, and we ambled through the park and onto the sidewalk. “I’m parked over there,” I said, pointing at my car. “Where should we meet?”
“You can park at my place, and we can walk from there.” He gave me his address, and I realized he lived only a few blocks from my apartment building.
A short drive later, I parked behind Nash’s pickup truck in his driveway. I couldn’t help but check his house out: a cute restored cottage, painted dark blue with white trim and a gabled roof. The guy had style.
I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror and quickly freshened up my lipstick before jumping out of the car and greeting Dexter once more. He acted like I was his long-lost friend, returned from the dead.
Nash chuckled. “You have a new fan.”
I patted Dexter as he leaned against my legs, marveling at how comfortable I felt with this large, slobbery dog—and his owner. “I guess I do.”
Nash clipped a lead on Dexter’s collar, and we walked together down the street toward his “local,” Dexter trotting calmly at Nash’s side.
“Have you lived in this neighborhood long?” I asked as we passed familiar stores and cafés.
“I bought a house and renovated it. So, yeah, a while. I really like it here, although it’d be great to have more space for the dogs.”
From my research prior to our date, I knew Nash was thirty-two: a very marriageable age, which, of course, was one of my considerations when I was choosing whom to date. I knew he had lived here for years, and I was surprised I hadn’t seen him on the weekends.
“Here we are,” Nash said as we drew to a stop outside Ready to Eat, a café I had eaten at only a month or so ago. It had large windows, overlooking the street, with an oversized blackboard where a talented member of staff had drawn a picture of some fantastical beasts and mermaids, all in colorful chalk.
“Oh, I love this place! Good choice.”
We walked past the tables on the street and through the open door. Nash was instantly greeted with an enthusiastic “hello” from a hipster guy with a bushy beard behind the counter.
“How are you doing, Bojan?” Nash asked him as the men shook hands over the top of the counter.
“Great, man. You?”
“Awesome, as always. Hey,” he said, turning to me, “this is Marissa.”
Bojan extended his hand and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Bojan.”
“Likewise,” he said with a grin. He let go of my hand and said, “Hey, Dexter! How you doing, boy?”
Dexter’s tail immediately started banging against my leg.
“You here for lunch?” Bojan asked us.
“We are indeed.”
“Cool. Grab some menus and I’ll come take your order. Your usual table is reserved.”
His usual table? Nash clearly thought the first part of our date would go well enough for us to make it this far. I smiled to myself. I admired his confidence.
We walked through the café and out the back door to an area I never knew existed, although I had been here a handful of times. It was a tiny courtyard with only a few tables, all wrought iron with chairs with comfortable cushions. There was a pergola with ivy climbing up its sides and overhead, dappling the light beautifully.
“This place is gorgeous!” I exclaimed.
“I thought you’d been here before.”
“Never to this part.”
“You’ve been missing out, then. Here.” He gestured to a small table for two with a “reserved” sign in its center, and we sat down, Dexter arranging himself at Nash’s feet.
A moment later, Bushy Bearded Bojan appeared at our table, menus and glasses of water in his hands, which he proceeded to place on the table. “We’ve got that halloumi, rocket, and fig stack with sourdough bread again, Nash.”
Nash looked at me, his eyes bright. “You’ve got to try that.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. A halloumi, rocket, and fig stack sounded a little feminine for a guy who looked like he worked out, but then, maybe I wasn’t giving him credit for being a foodie. “That sounds great.” I looked up at Bojan, marveling at his beard. I mean, it was nicer than some women’s hair. “I’ll have the halloumi stack and a skinny latte, thanks.” I handed him my menu.
“Me too,” Nash said, following suit. “Oh, with a side of steak.” He winked at me, and I shook my head.
And there it was.
Beginning to feel very relaxed and comfortable with him, we chatted about ourselves, enjoying the warm outside air and the quaint surrounds. And we got on really, really well. Unlike the first date of the day—which still made me shudder whenever it crept into my mind—I was finding it hard to latch onto anything bad about Nash at all.
Which was extremely surprising for someone with a degree in fussiness.
By the time we had finished our lunch, I was almost completely convinced Nash would be the winner of the day. Although I had one more date to go on, I simply couldn’t imagine enjoying anyone’s company as much as I had Nash’s.
“Hey, this was fun,” he said as we left the café and walked slowly back toward my car. He slipped his free hand in mine, and I looked up into his eyes and smiled. It felt good; it felt right. We ambled the couple of blocks to his house, stopping beside my car.
“Thank you for a really nice day,” I said, suddenly awkward.
Now would be the perfect moment for us to have our first kiss—perhaps my last ever first kiss—and the magnitude of the moment had a couple of hamsters scuttling around in my belly.
“I had a great time,” Nash said, taking a step closer to me so we were almost touching. He ran his hands down my arms, and I knew this was it, our first kiss. My heart rate kicked up a notch—or ten.
Our attention was diverted by Dexter letting out a long whine. Nash laughed, breaking the spell. “He’s jealous!” he said, crouching down to pat Dexter, who lapped up the attention.
I wondered if Dexter was having a canine fantasy of dispensing of me so he could have Nash all to himself.
“You’re a good boy, Dex,” Nash said to him, still crouching down next to his dog and holding his face in his hands. “You’re still my number one.”
And then, I watched in horror as Dexter’s long tongue darted out of his mouth, planting a wet, slobbery lick, right across Nash’s face. It was like everything had gone into slow motion, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.
The moment Nash straightened up and pulled me into him once more, I stiffened. Was Dexter’s slobber on Nash’s lips? Perhaps even in his mouth ?
And I could tell you one thing, dog slobber was not sexy.
As Nash leaned back in to kiss me, I held my breath, pressing my lips together, bracing for the transferal of dog slobber from one human to another. I had to work hard to resist the urge to gag.
His lips brushed my clenched upper lip in possibly the least sexy kiss of all time.
He pulled away from me, a confused look on his face, a face, in that moment, I could not believe I thought once looked like Jon Snow.
“What was that?” he asked.
I swallowed. “Nothing. You’re great. And your dog? He’s great. You’re both great.” Nash was watching me with clear confusion. “I . . . I just have to go. Sorry. I didn’t realize what the time was, and I have a thing I need to get to.”
I couldn’t look at him, instead I focused my attention on locating my keys in my purse, an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu washing over me. I hit the “open” button and fumbled behind myself for the door handle.
Nash took a step back, watching me closely through narrowed eyes. “You have to go?”
Locating the handle and yanking open the door awkwardly behind me, I said, “Yes, sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll call you.”
Although, I knew I had no intention of doing that anymore.
I turned and opened the door fully, climbed into the car, and slammed the door shut. I resisted the strong urge to hit the “lock” button, instead starting the car up and throwing it into gear. I gave him a tight smile and waved like I was a child waving at a clown on a float, and began to back out of the driveway.
As I turned onto the street, I looked back at Nash standing next to a seated Dexter with his arms crossed, his brows knitted together in confusion. I waved once more and put my foot down, leaving Nash, Dexter, and their combined saliva behind.