Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
DEVIN
I’ve tried not to get overly excited about this date, but it’s difficult. Travis is gorgeous, and he’s a vegetarian who apparently reads Kurt Vonnegut and supports the Giants.
But for some reason, as I put on my best date shirt, the one with blue and green stripes that brings out my eyes, TruthGuardian sneaks into my brain. It’s been happening more and more, my mind drifting to him when I’m not moderating.
What’s he like in person? For some reason, I imagine him tall and perpetually frowning at his phone while typing corrections to someone’s grammar. The kind of guy who has strong opinions about Oxford commas and optimal coffee brewing temperatures.
It’s ridiculous that I’m thinking about him now. I’m literally about to meet a real, verified hottie, and I’m daydreaming about an internet stranger who thinks romance is a collective delusion.
The Uber ride to Garden Table feels both endless and way too short. I check my hair in my phone screen eight times, which is a waste of time as the wind destroys it in the short dash from the Uber to the restaurant.
The ma?tre d’ who greets me has silver hair and the kind of composure that makes me aware I’m sweating.
“I’m meeting someone? Travis?” I manage to get out.
“Ah, yes, your companion has already arrived. Right this way.”
I follow him through the restaurant, trying not to trip over my feet. Because face-planting isn’t quite the first impression I’m going for.
“Your table is over there,” the ma?tre d’ states as we reach a back room, pointing to a table in the corner.
And then I see Travis.
My stride falters.
Because I know.
I suddenly understand all those posts where the storyteller describes knowing instantly that the other person was meant for them.
Even I’ve been skeptical of those stories, thinking it was retrospective romanticizing, someone’s brain adding a soft-focus filter to an ordinary moment to make a better story.
But as I watch Travis frowning down at the table as he rearranges his fork and knife so they’re completely parallel with each other, recognition jolts through me.
This is my guy. This is him.
My eyes actually prickle, and I blink quickly.
Because that’s not exactly a great first-date conversation. Don’t mind my leaking eyes. It’s because I think you’re my soulmate, and I’m so excited to have found you after all of this time.
How does this work? Does he get struck by the same thunderbolt? Or is it a one-sided thing, and I have to walk on eggshells not to scare him off?
Could there be anything worse in life than believing you’ve found your soulmate, only to discover they’re not interested in you in return?
I swallow and force myself to continue walking.
He looks up as I approach, and his eyes widen slightly behind his glasses.
I can’t help it. I smile ridiculously at him. It’s a grin that’s probably far too large given the circumstances, but I’ve apparently lost all control over my facial muscles.
Travis looks startled, his lips parting just a fraction.
“Devin?” he asks.
I wrestle my expression away from the grinning-with-alarming-enthusiam range into something hopefully more normal.
“Ah…yeah, that’s me. You must be Travis.”
He stands and offers his hand, enabling me to clock that he’s a few inches taller than my five foot ten, exactly the right height where I could tuck my head against his shoulder if we were hugging. Which is a totally normal thing to calculate within five seconds of meeting someone.
I take his hand.
His skin is warm and his hand fits mine perfectly. Apparently, my brain thinks compatible hand sizes is a thing that matters. Something tightens low in my belly at the contact, like my body’s already making plans my brain hasn’t approved.
Travis stares down at our joined hands and then glances up at me quickly. His eyes widen, and another smile spreads on my face. The corner of his lips quirk up to match mine.
Does that mean he’s feeling it as well? I put in a quick prayer to whatever deities exist, pleading with them to manipulate things so he’s feeling this connection as well.
“Ah, hi,” he says.
“It’s nice to meet you.” I’m so impressed by how I manage to keep my voice neutral. Especially given I’m basically a human sparkler inside, shooting off in twenty-one different emotional directions.
Travis drops my hand, and I immediately feel its absence.
We both sit at the same time, then there’s this moment where we’re just…looking at each other. His fingers drum once on the table, stop, then he reaches for his water glass.
“So,” Travis says, taking a sip, “I should probably confess something right away.”
Oh god. He’s married. He’s straight. He’s moving to Antarctica tomorrow. He’s—
“I don’t usually do blind dates.” He sets his glass down precisely on the coaster. “But my brother was…insistent.”
“Insistent?” I manage, trying not to be distracted by the way he adjusts his glasses up his nose with his index finger.
It’s an unconscious gesture, yet I’m suddenly very aware of his hands.
Long fingers. Precise movements. My brain helpfully supplies images of what else those hands might be precise about.
“Yes, he threatened to change my Netflix password if I didn’t show up,” Travis explains. “It’s a big threat. I’m currently midway through three different documentaries.”
“Brutal. What kind of documentaries are you watching?”
“One about tax fraud, one about skyscrapers, and one about a woman who may or may not have pushed her husband off a cliff.”
“That’s quite a range. Educational, architectural, and homicidal.”
Travis smiles, and triumph surges through me. Something else also surges—a pull of want that settles warm and insistent behind my ribs. God, that smile should come with a warning label.
“I like to keep my interests diverse.” He straightens his napkin, aligning it perfectly with the edge of the table. “He also mentioned you’re a Kurt Vonnegut fan, which bumped you from ‘absolutely not’ to ‘fine, one dinner.’”
“So I owe my presence here to a dead satirist? I’ll take it.” I take a sip of my own water, trying to get rid of the dry feeling in my mouth before I continue, “I sometimes feel like there should be a support group. ‘Hi, I’m Devin, and I’ve read Slaughterhouse-Five fifteen times.’”
“Fifteen?” His gorgeous green eyes light up behind his glasses. “Amateur. I’ve read it at least twenty-three times.”
“Twenty-three?”
“I had a phase in university where I read it every time I had an existential crisis, which was…frequently.”
“Kurt Vonnegut is a great choice for an existential crisis,” I say.
“I know.”
He meets my gaze.
“So it goes,” we both say at the same time.
His smile starts slow, but spreads across his face like honey on warm toast. Gradual but inevitable.
I’m pretty sure mine is more instantaneous but just as intense.
Oh my god, oh my god.
This is happening. It’s really happening.
I feel almost giddy.
I swallow my excitement and try to get my voice to sound normal.
“So, Travis, who reads Kurt Vonnegot an unhealthy amount—because in my opinion, fifteen times is normal, but twenty-three is just extreme—what else should I know about you? What do you do for a job?”
“I’m a structural engineer.”
I nod. “I can see that.”
His eyebrow rises. “Do I give out engineering vibes?”
“Well, the way you’ve rearranged your cutlery and napkin around your plate like they’re in military service does make me think you have a deep need for order.”
He looks down at his place setting and gives a small chuckle.
He raises his gaze to mine, and we grin foolishly at each other again. My heart does something that would probably concern a cardiologist.
“Let me guess,” I say, “you were the kid who built elaborate LEGO cities with working traffic patterns.”
“Close. I built model bridges and tested their weight capacity with my mom’s books. What about you? What do you do for a job?”
“I’m a graphic designer.”
He gives me a slow once-over, and it causes my skin to tingle.
“I can see that.” He repeats my own words with a small smirk.
“You can see that I’m a graphic designer from my outfit?”
“Yes. Well, there are clues. Your watch is the exact shade of teal that Pantone named Color of the Year last year. You’re wearing four colors that technically clash but somehow work together, and you’ve cuffed each of your sleeves exactly twice, perfectly even on both arms.”
I blink. “Wow. You pay close attention to details.”
“I’m a details guy.” He fidgets with his fork. “Does that bother you?” He raises those green eyes to mine with a small frown, like that personality trait has been a problem for him in the past.
“Not at all. I tend to be a big-picture dreamer, so it’s good to have someone around who notices the details.
Besides, I’ve found there’s definitely some advantages to guys who pay close attention to the little things.
” I give a flirty smile. “Especially when they respond to feedback about what’s working and what’s not. ”
Travis’s eyes darken slightly.
“I’m definitely good at responding to feedback,” he says.
“Great to know. I always appreciate good quality control.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. There’s heat building under my skin that has nothing to do with the restaurant’s ambient temperature.
Travis leans forward in his chair, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes stay fixed on mine. “Fair warning, though, my feedback can be…thorough.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. Because the way he says “thorough” should not affect me this much.
It definitely shouldn’t be stirring a reaction in my cock, which apparently has an opinion on this conversation.
“I’d expect nothing less from someone who tested bridge weight capacity with his mom’s book collection,” I manage to say.
“Those were important experiments. I learned a lot about load-bearing thresholds.”
I can’t help laughing delightedly at that, and he grins.