Chapter 15
fifteen
PAST
KATE
First dates are the worst. Or is this a second date? Either way, I’m choosing to blame my jitters on that instead of my insane attraction to the tattooed man pulling into my driveway.
Brandon swings off the motorcycle, and my salivary glands kick into hyperactivity. I’m Pavlov’s dog when it comes to those green eyes, and if I thought Casual Brandon was hot, then I’m practically foaming at the mouth for Date Night Brandon.
Instead of his usual distressed jeans and tank, Brandon has been dipped in night.
His fitted ebony button-up and tailored slacks look equally sleek and sinister.
A leather belt that matches his dress shoes gleams around his waist. His dark hair tumbles over his forehead and brushes his crisp collar, which is left open enough to reveal the inky tattoo creeping up his neck.
Holy bananas, Batman.
I’m glad that I have approximately ten more seconds to get my crap together.
I rush to the entryway mirror and pat down my hair.
Since Brandon told me to “get fancy,” whatever that means, I curled my waist-length hair and brushed it out into voluminous waves.
My smoky eyeliner is smudged to perfection.
I assumed we’d probably be riding his motorcycle, so I abandoned my go-to little black dress and chose a trendy wide-legged pair of black trousers with a skin-tight, long-sleeved black bodysuit tucked in.
Since I’m not very chesty, the deep “v” neckline isn’t too revealing, but I wanted to wear the necklace Liza gifted me for my birthday last month.
The diamond pendant closes just above my collarbones, and a long silver chain drips into my sorry attempt at cleavage.
Before I’m even remotely ready, a sharp knock raps at the sorority house door.
I suck in a calming breath and remind myself that this night means nothing. He weaseled my phone number out of me just like he did this date. Brandon Roberts is nothing more than a playboy with pretty words, and I’d do well to remember that.
I will remember that.
But it doesn’t stop me from swiping on a quick layer of strawberry gloss before opening the door.
Brandon’s face parts into a boyish grin as he skips his eyes over me. He takes his time staying silent, like he’s absorbing this moment. I wish he’d talk, since all I can hear is my deafening heartbeat.
“Wow, love. You look beautiful,” he murmurs.
That melts me more than it should, so I say, “And you clean up well too, but you probably already know that.”
A soft chuckle rolls over his lips, and he beams, unabashed. “I do, but it’s still nice to hear.” He indulges in one more scan of me before he says, “These are for you.”
From behind his back, Brandon produces the most deformed plastic branch of cherry blossoms I ever thought possible.
I puff out a laugh and flick the craft store price tag still attached to it. “These are the ugliest branches I’ve ever seen.”
“I know.” He takes a step toward the threshold and angles his face closer to mine. It’s suddenly very hard to inhale properly.
“I wanted them to match the hideous painting you told me about, so in my opinion, they’re… perfect.” He says this word as his eyes roam every square inch of my face. “Plus, no floral shop sells cherry blossom branches in December.”
I can’t quite get my brain to focus on his words.
Brandon’s saying something to me now with those full lips, but all I’m registering is that he remembered about my Senior Art Showcase.
He’s still not upset about me giving him a fake number, for which I must give him credit.
Most guys run for the hills, clutching their wounded testosterone after I pull stunts like that.
No guy has shown me this much thoughtfulness. Ever.
“Are you ready to go?” Brandon asks, and I break out of my stupor to nod.
After setting the hideous cherry blossom branch on the entryway table, I wrap a belted red peacoat around me and slip on a pair of gloves. I loop my leather purse with the silver chain strap over my shoulder.
Brandon offers me his elbow, and I thread my arm beside his bicep as he escorts me out into the wintry night.
“Where are we going?”
Brandon’s emerald eyes twinkle. “You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, my nose is ice, but the rest of me still feels hot. Brandon helps me off the motorcycle and, like always, removes my helmet. He shrugs off his leather jacket, stowing it inside the compartment.
“So this is where you murder me?” I ask, glancing around the snow-dusted, dumpster-lined parking lot behind some sort of building. “Good to know.”
Brandon’s deep, rumbly laugh sends a shiver through me. “I’m not gonna kill you, scaredy Kate, I’m going to feed you. Come on.”
His fingers thread through mine, and I very much regret wearing gloves.
Brandon leads me through a nondescript door and into a blank hallway lined with white bricks.
“Never mind. This is where you murder me,” I say.
“Stop. You’re ruining the moment.”
“What moment? This looks like the entrance to an insane asylum,” I say.
“Well then, you can finally get the help you need.”
I puff a laugh of protest and smack his stupidly hard chest with the back of my hand. “So this is how you treat a date? I can see why you don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Who says I don’t?” He stops walking with a wicked grin, tugging me to a stop. Brandon’s angled face is inches from mine, and his green eyes are filled with danger.
“Either you’re insinuating that I’m the other woman or that you think I’m going to be your girlfriend.” I boldly stare up at him even as my left knee starts to bounce.
He catches the movement in his periphery, and I lose a precious second of that gaze on mine until it works its way back.
“And wouldn’t you like that…” His words are nothing but a whisper—a tease—across the curve of my ear. Then he steps back. “But we’ll see how the night goes first. We’ll call it your trial period.”
“My trial period?!” I can’t help but laugh through my offended expression.
We stop at an unmarked metal door. “We’ll talk after you tell me how you feel about this…” He grandly pushes it open.
Approximately twelve gray-and-white-haired heads fly to us, and we freeze in the middle of an event space.
A semi-circle of wheelchairs and metal seats is occupied by elderly women beneath a banner that says, “Congratulations Bernice and Archie.” Ironically, “Archie” is nowhere to be found in this flock of women.
The seemingly eighty-five-year-old lady in the center has a fluffy pink boa over her knit cardigan and a gift bag in her hand. She turns to the even older-looking woman in the wheelchair beside her. The woman whom I can only assume is the bride, Bernice, has a voice that shakes with age.
“Gwendolyn, you said you didn’t hire any exotic dancers.”
Gwendolyn looks so ancient that she’s barely coherent, but she focuses her glazed eyes on Brandon.
The lady on the other side of Gwendolyn answers on her behalf. “That old bat doesn’t know what she’s typing into the internet. By the looks of it”—she slides her bifocals closer with a bony knuckle—“I say it’s a very handsome accident.”
I roll my lips in and try not to laugh. Brandon’s face seems a bit pale, but the flush in his cheeks is nearing tomato red. Whatever Brandon meant to show me, it was obviously not this. I stifle another laugh.
I tilt my head closer and speak out the side of my mouth. “Weird choice of date, Mr. Roberts. But if you choose to spend your free time exotic dancing for the retirement home, who am I to judge?”
Brandon closes his eyes, tips his head back, and shakes it like he can’t believe this is happening. His face swings to mine, and he cracks an eye open. “I’m not an exotic dancer, Kate.”
I gesture to the semi-circle of waiting ladies. “Apparently you are. At least for tonight. I mean, do you really want to deprive”—I squint at the banner—“Bernice from fully enjoying her last night as a single woman?”
Brandon folds his massive arms and shifts his body to block my view of the banner. I have no choice but to blink sweetly up at him as he says, “You’re not seriously suggesting I dance for these grannies.”
I drop my brows and say, “Oh, I most certainly am. A wedding is the most important day of a woman’s life, and you’d have to be a monster to send Bernice into her special day feeling… disappointed.”
His shoulders quake beneath a silent laugh, but he shakes his head again. “No.”
I rise on tiptoe toward his ear and use the same technique Brandon used in my figure drawing class to get my real number.
“I dare you.”
Brandon instantly turns his head, and his mouth almost brushes mine. I stop breathing. His lidded-gaze drops to my lips before he languidly pulls it back up.
“Fine,” he says. “But I’m keeping it PG. And… I get the next dare.”
“Deal,” I hear myself say.
Brandon opens a music app on his phone and hands it to me. “Find ‘Past the Lights.’ It should be in the playlist called ‘Tuck and Brando.’”
I laugh and locate the playlist. “Tuck and Brando 4-eva? Aren’t you two just the cutest?”
Brandon doesn’t respond, and I glance up to find him unbuttoning his dress shirt, revealing a white tank so tight it’s virtually painted onto his pectoral muscles.
It’s a feast for the eyes—one I shouldn’t be partaking in.
Someone is jacking up the thermostat in this event room. My money’s on Gwendolyn.
“I-I thought you were keeping it PG,” I sputter.
“Worried?” Brandon winks, and I flush even hotter. “I am, I just didn’t want to get my nice shirt all sweaty for our date.” He finishes pulling off the black fabric and tosses it to me before taking his phone back.
The spicy scent of his cedarwood cologne envelops me, and it takes an absurd amount of willpower not to shove my face into it and breathe like it’s an asthma inhaler.