CHAPTER 4 #2
He blinks. I blink. And then the grim line of his mouth curves into the smallest of smiles.
He hasn’t said anything yet—neither have I—but already my right hand itches to reach for my pen and fashion a big, clear, heavy-handed X in the “yes” column next to his name on the match card that lies facedown and unmarked beside me.
I was going to wait until the break to assign my dates to the definitive categories of yes or no, or the more mollifying category of friendship only—but a couple of seconds of sustained eye contact and a lip quirk from the man in front of me has me thinking we should just call it a night now.
Put in last calls, start flickering the lights and turning the chairs onto the tables.
Because another study I read about speed dates disagreed with the thirty-second theory. It said you know within the first four seconds of meeting someone whether you’ll want to match with them. And I’m inclined to agree as I glance down at his name tag and see three capital letters: WES.
“Hey,” he says.
His voice is deep, a little husky, and it sounds so good that there’s a little delay before I remember to say, “Hi.”
His smile widens into a grin he then tries to tamp down. It completely softens the inexplicably stern look that was on his face, and I find it so endearing I’m grinning back just as wide.
“I’m Wes.”
“Jamie.”
He stares at me for a second, his mouth silently forming my name until he tilts his head to the side and asks, “What makes you happy, Jamie?”
A bark of laughter shoots out of my mouth, loud enough that I see Laurie pause in her date with John across the way.
Her head peeks over his shoulder, mouth pursing comically in a “Girrrrlll, we are talking about that when we get home” expression before I glance back at Wes and try to swallow down a fit of giggles that threaten to ruin any cool girl allure I may have conjured in the last thirty seconds.
“Seriously?” It’s such a… strange thing to say.
What’s even stranger is that I’m kind of into it.
“I—I don’t know why I said that,” he murmurs, color rising to the top of his cheeks though he keeps his stare on me. He’s not embarrassed enough to look away, to break eye contact.
He shakes his head, eyes closing in a prolonged blink, and I take the opportunity to cast my eyes down his torso.
I think there’s a tattoo peeking over his shoulder—an interesting, sharp tip of something just visible at the opening of his collar.
I’m not into tattoos. At least, I wasn’t.
But I want to know what that spike connects to, and I want to follow its path to wherever it may lead.
“It’s the first question that came to mind,” he says, eyes still closed.
“And you want to stick with that?” I grin, and when his eyes open again and he spots my smile, his lips tilt up into something that pulls at that ultrathin thread in my chest.
“Yeah, I feel like I need to know.” His voice drops lower on the admission. And the way he says it… like it’s the truth and, yes, it surprises him, too.
I pause before answering, highly aware that however I respond sets the tone for the rest of the date and possibly the rest of my life. God, where did that come from?
I should say something deep and philosophical. Something to impress him or something vaguely sexual to turn him on. But I don’t, because I want to tell him the truth and I want him to be impressed and turned on by it regardless.
“Movies.”
Nothing on this man’s face flinches or quirks or furrows in response. He just keeps staring, and I have no desire to look away.
“They make you happy?”
“They do… They make the world make sense.”
I drop my voice to a whisper since we’re not supposed to talk about anything work related.
I respect the reasoning for the rule—so we can find deeper, more lasting connections that aren’t influenced by salary—but I’m willing to break it for Wes to know what takes up a lot of space in my brain. A lot of space in my life, really.
“I’m writing a thesis about film. I want to teach genre theory.”
“What’s your favorite genre?”
“I have two: rom-com and horror—well, slashers, actually.”
His eyes narrow before his gaze drops down. He gives my pretty, rom-com-appropriate dress a once-over before raising his stare back to mine, his eyebrow quirking up as he does. I just grin. I can guess which part of that answer he’s doubtful about.
“What makes you happy, Wes?”
While it may have been the first question to come to his mind, he doesn’t have an answer ready, and after a couple of seconds of forehead-furrowing thought he says, “I like a happy ending.”
At my arched brow, he clarifies. “Not that kind… although, yeah, I’m sure that’s nice. But I like when the underdog wins, when the hero beats the odds… I like when the guy gets the girl.”
It’s a lovely, loaded, answer. One that makes his gaze drop and settle on my mouth because I’m… Am I… biting my lip?
He takes his time to lift his stare back to mine, and when he does, I have a better understanding of the term “bedroom eyes.” Soft, intense, endless pools of darkness. His eyes are bittersweet cocoa dark, and they somehow spike my blood sugar.
“What’s your favorite movie?” he asks, and it’s like asking me what the primary colors are, or who the three Big Bads are (Jason, Michael, Freddy). I don’t even have to think.
“It’s a three-way tie: While You Were Sleeping, Saw, Shaun of the Dead.”
I’m glad he asked me first because this is a deal-breaker question for me. Though I think Wes would have to like something really bad to counteract whatever is happening over this slightly sticky table right now. He’d have to be a fan of like… Cats or something.
“What’s yours?”
He leans into the table, looking like he’s up for the challenge when he folds his hands in the space between us. His middle finger is half an inch away from grazing against mine, and his hands look strong, capable. I recross my legs.
“Also, a three-way tie. BlacKkKlansman—”
“Oh shit, good choice.” That’s an understatement. It’s a killer choice.
“The Fast and the Furious.”
I’ll allow it.
“And…” He inhales through his teeth like he’s considering not telling me. I’m on the edge of my seat, preparing for the Cats moment that is going to ruin this amazing first impression, and then, “Miss Congeniality.”
Be still, my beating heart. Be still, my equally beating vagina. My cheeks might very well burst from trying to hold back the smile that answer warrants.
“Miss Congeniality?”
“I love Sandy.”
He says it so seriously that it’s my turn to stare. The side of his mouth twitches in amusement when he asks, “Do I pass the test?”
“Depends. How do you feel about scary movies?”
They were noticeably absent from his list, and while I can overlook The Fast and the Furious, it’d be a major red flag if he doesn’t watch any horror.
He shrugs. “I’m partial to one every now and then… I’d watch more with the right person.”
I’d like to be the right person.
I’d start off gentle, maybe Scream or Nightmare on Elm Street. Eventually, if things got more serious, we’d graduate to Creep or Sinister. Break up the gore with Two Weeks Notice as a palette cleanser.
“Is this your first one of these?” I ask after the silence—the one caused by me fantasizing about having a three-way of films with this guy—extends. If I want that to become a reality, I’ll have to, you know, find out more general information about him.
“Yeah, I, uh—” He leans in, and I match his movement.
We’re close, like six inches close, and I can smell his cologne, or his shampoo, or his bodywash.
Or maybe it’s a mix of all three. Whatever it is, it’s woody and smoky and spicy and it makes me take a long—hopefully subtle—breath through my nose to try and memorize it.
“I work a lot.”
My eyes are drawn down to his clasped hands as he talks. His thumb is mindlessly circling one of his knuckles and… Huh. That’s new. I try not to squirm too obviously in my seat.
“I don’t have much free time, but I got some time off recently and thought what’s the worst that could happen?”
Didn’t I tell myself the very same thing earlier in the night? Although there is one scenario that always comes to mind.
“We could get murdered.”
I say it without thinking. Shrugging in a “Whattaya gonna do?” kind of way as I lift my gaze to meet his, expecting a thoroughly amused expression and my first taste of a low, husky laugh that would give me a greater appreciation for the deep rasp of his voice.
But I don’t see it, and he doesn’t laugh.
He doesn’t laugh at all.