First Date
FIRST DATE
Willow
Our Saturday night date arrives one hundred and fifty hours after the Park Run ended—not that I’ve been counting.
“These are for you.” Bronx shoves the enormous bunch of native flowers in my hands before his huge body jogs back down my front stairs.
“Thank you, they are lovely.” I call after him, adding, “We should do this again, sometime.” My laughter stops when he returns with a cake platter, bottle of red wine, and a shoe-sized box.
“Um, which are you least likely to drop?” I don’t know which one to take first.
“The cake took too long to buy it and I’ll never remember the online store again,” he sings offkey, butchering the words to a song my grandmother loved. “A broken bottle of wine is bad luck, and you’ll never know if the present is breakable or not until you open it.”
“It’s not my birthday and you’re killing Macarthur Park.”
“Consider it an early or late teacher appreciation day.”
“Do you appreciate all of Charlotte’s teachers?”
“Only the ones who offer me dinner if I bake a cake.” He sees my reaction and quickly adds, “And here is me proving I have no game.” He laughs with no hint of embarrassment. “I haven’t been on a first date since I was sixteen. I don’t have an online profile and I don’t know what to say when a beautiful woman has me tongue-tied with nerves and greets me looking the way you do.”
“I think you just proved you have more game than Cassanova.” I’m blushing and desperate not to trip on my way to the kitchen. “I only hope dinner lives up to the wine and cake.”
“Whatever you have cooking smells amazing.”
Meeting the man I’ve spent countless nights fantasizing over should feel awkward, but doesn’t. As Bronx sets everything down on my bench, I try not to ogle at his arm porn. Seriously, my hormones need to get a grip.
“I hope you like roasted stuffed red capsicum.” Steam billows out of the oven when I check on the first course. “Can you get the platter of antipasto from the refrigerator for me, please?”
“Yes, and yes.” Within seconds, Bronx works beside me in the kitchen as if we’re an experienced team, removing lids and arranging the platter; before building me a cracker, cheese, and prosciutto sandwich. “Mmm, you peeled the capsicum skin?”
“Of course. There’s something about holding a pepper to an open flame and watching it blister.”
“Die, capsicum, die.” He laughs and I love the way his face softens. “I know it takes longer, but it’s the only way Charlotte eats it.”
“And for main, we have poached salmon with asparagus and slow-baked potatoes.” Confident in the capsicum, I check the stove.
“All this for me? I’m honored.” He leans over to take in the aroma. “How did you make this sauce?”
Nervously, I offer him a spoon to taste.
“You know your sauces,” he says approvingly and threatens to double dip until I slap his hand away.
“And there’s a naughty corner over there waiting for you.”
“If I’m in the naughty corner, who’s going to cut your cake ?”
OMG, is he throwing out innuendos? I can’t play this game, not with him. I’m already beyond nervous and want to scream to the world that Bronx Parker is in my kitchen wanting to cut my cake.
“Shall I open my gift now?” I need to say something, otherwise, I’ll stand here like a goofball and drown in his eyes. Someone pinch me . It’s as if I manifested the perfect man, then his daughter joined my class, and now he’s in my kitchen, about to eat my food.
“Hey, Willow,” he says, snapping me out of my daydream. “Where'd you go?”
“I was just thinking.” Damn, he’s going to think I’m a creeper.
“About?”
“Do you want me to be honest?” I’ve never been able to come up with a flirty redirect and the more he looks into my eyes, the less I can hide my feelings. What’s the worst he can do? Insist on taking his daughter out of my class? Get a restraining order?
“No, please lie to me.” Bronx’s laugh removes the sting from his words. “Lying is why my marriage survived for so many years.”
When I step back and go back to stirring the sauce, he’s behind me. “Willow, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Isn’t it the first rule of dating not to talk about your ex?”
I set aside the spoon and twist to see his furrowed brow and little crinkles between his eyes. He’s genuinely concerned that he upset me. “I think the first rule of dating is to be honest, and because you were honest with me, how about I swap you one truth for another?”
“Hold that thought.” He unscrews the bottle of wine and pours two glasses. “To truth and honesty?”
“To truth and honesty.” I touch my glass to his and take a long sip. How much should I confess?
“So, you were going to tell me why you got lost in thought back there.”
“I was,” I say very slowly, “thinking about all the times I watched you play.”
“You're a fan.”
“I am a fan. Of your team and then of you.” There. It doesn’t feel as scary to say I’m a fan. Bronx has thousands of fans and must meet us every day. But he doesn’t agree to have dinner with all fans .
“Does that mean you saw my hat trick?”
“Are you kidding? You’re accepting that as a hat trick?” I don’t need to force a laugh. “The replay clearly showed …”
“The scoreboard clearly shows that three tries were scored that day, each one by Bronx Parker. Three tries is a hat trick. The question is, Ms. Willow Caton, did you see my hat trick?”
“I watched the game.”
“Did you see my hat trick?”
“I saw all tries that were scored, including the dubious one awarded by the referee. I only agree it was a try because we needed the points to climb the competition ladder on for and against.”
“You’re truly a fan.”
“Does that make things awkward?” I look away, before adding, “I mean, if you want to go …”
“Willow, I’m a lot older than you.” He redirects my gaze with his thumb across my hand and his touch electrifies me. The words say we shouldn’t , but it’s only seven years.
“And your daughter is in my class.” Even if I don’t lose my job, I could lose my reputation.
“My daughter is the most important person in my life.” He says the words, but he’s looking at me as if I hung the moon.
“My job is important. I don’t know if there are rules about dating a student’s parent, but it wouldn’t be a good look for either of us.” What would his ex-wife say?
“I’m sure parents hit on you all the time. When you were standing in your classroom, I felt your energy. You aren’t just beautiful, you are daylight. You’re a bright sun. I’m rambling, but I already told you I have no game. You’re just …”
“I’m starting to think that your game is telling women you have no game to lower our defenses.”
“I promise you, my last first date …”
“I know, was when you were sixteen. As for parents hitting on me, I became immune to that years ago.”
“Are you immune to me?”
If I step closer, we’ll be within kissing distance. If he steps closer, I can either back into the stove or stand my ground. This is wrong . No, this feels right. He’s just come out of a messy divorce—he isn’t even divorced. He’s been separated for over a year. Charlotte . I have no come-back. His daughter is my student.
“I asked you a question, Willow. Are you immune to me?”
“I'm your daughter's teacher.”
“I know.”
“It could be used against either of us; personally and professionally.”
“I know.” He’s waiting for me with such patience that I want to either cry or fling myself at him. I wanted him before I knew him but back then it was me falling in love with an image. Now that I’ve met the man, he ticks all my boxes. Why should I deny us at least reaching for happiness and love?
“I’m not immune to you. I felt something that day when you came for Charlotte. Even though you barely spoke to me, I felt something between us. Then at the Park Run, I felt a connection. I don’t invite men to my home. This is my safe space and I never give out my address.”
Bronx cups my face and we are standing toe to toe. I could relax into him and feel his strength, or I can stay upright. I’ve already said my piece. I need to hear that he’s in this with me. But when his fingers stroke my cheek, I moan, “Oh, Bronx.”
“I don’t believe in love at first sight, but I believe in instant connections—and we have it. I don’t believe in coincidences, but I hadn’t decided on where to go for a Park Run until I arrived at the ground.”
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you.” Is there a thing as me being too honest, too soon? But the way I feel when Bronx looks at me, I want him to know that he’s more than my fantasy coming to life—he’s more than my student’s father—he’s Bronx, and I’m Willow, and we can be whatever he wants.
“I couldn’t believe my luck when you wanted me to run with you. If you hadn’t held my hand and dragged me to the starting position, this might not have happened.”
“What’s happening?” I ask, breathless. We’ve weighed up the risks, and Bronx is worth it.
“I want you. I want this. I want to see how far this thing between us can go.”
I place a hand on his chest and the butterflies inside my heart do cartwheels and backflips. He is a wall of muscle with the softest looking lips.
I have no words, so I answer him with a kiss.