Bates #2
Her full lips curl into a hesitant smile.
“I don’t bother with secrets. They make me feel disingenuous, and they’re a waste of time.
The truth always comes out in the end, so it may as well be told from the start.
” She tightens her grip on the notepad. “This is just my version of shorthand. Saves time. I’ve done it since I was a kid. ”
I scratch my beard as I search her face. “Must have been a busy kid to need a tool like that.”
“Not really,” she says with a shrug. “But if I was organized, life felt less chaotic and more manageable. Mostly it’s just… annoying and weird. Like I said.”
I want to challenge her wording, but her quick, efficient actions are too distracting and fascinating to watch. She opens her notebook again and strikes through something on what I now suspect is a list.
“What did you just cross off?”
“Telling you that I’m a weirdo.” Her cheeks become even pinker, and she taps her pencil on the paper. “I was meant to do that after.”
“After what?” I take another sip of my beer to suppress my impending grin.
Her eyes travel between me and her notes, and she takes another deep preparatory-type breath.
“Well, first, I was meant to say that I have about…” She turns her wrist to view her very expensive-looking watch that appears to have all the bells and whistles. Her eyes close, and she seems to count to five before she opens them again.
She looks me dead in the eyes and leans forward.
“In about seventeen minutes’ time, those tequila shots will begin to render my judgment somewhat impaired, so I need to tell you right now that I’d very much like to have sex with you.
It’d be a one-night stand sort of thing.
Tonight,” she clarifies — as if maybe I’d assume she meant some other night.
“Not yet,” she adds quickly. “I definitely won’t be brave enough until the tequila has kicked in.
I just wanted you to know — while I’m still sober — that I’d very much like it to happen and that you wouldn’t be taking advantage of me, so you should definitely do it.
If you want to,” she amends before reviewing her notes again.
She nods, as if to herself, and crosses the top line of mixed letters off her little list.
Not quite sure I can believe what’s happening, I ease backward and look her over.
What the fuck have I been blessed with here?
Is she asking if I want to put myself on her To-Do list? Um, fuck yes. She’s gorgeous, and I haven’t ever been more intrigued. What did I do to deserve such a beautiful offer? I search her sweet, serious face and then admire the full curves filling out her compact frame.
She clears her throat, and I lift my eyes from her chest to her face again.
“I see you like my breasts. Do you want to have sex?” she asks. Her pencil poised at the next line of letters. “With me,” she clarifies.
This is definitely too good to be true. Is there a catch?
I narrow my gaze. “My short answer is yes, but the long answer involves questions.”
“So, to confirm, your interest is genuine, and your proposed response is yes?” she asks, trying to hide her smile.
I nod, and she strikes through two more lines with her pencil.
“Wait. That crossed two things off your list?”
“The first was asking the question, and the other referred to what I’d have done if you’d said no.”
Elbows on the table, I clasp my hands together and rest my chin on them as I gaze at her pretty face. How dumb would I be to decline such an offer? “What would you have done in that case?”
“That’s not important now,” she says brusquely, moving down the obscure list with her pencil. “What’s your name?”
A deep chuckle escapes me. I didn’t have myself pegged for enjoying anything for a while, but this girl is tickling my funny bone. “Maybe we should have started with that one,” I say as I reach a hand toward her. “Bates.”
Her eyebrows twitch, and she firmly shakes my big hand with her much daintier one. “Lana.”
“Pretty.”
She blushes again, and I feel my own face begin to warm.
If her cheeks keep pinking-up like this all night, I’m going to be seriously smitten.
Or maybe I already am. She’s different from every other woman I’ve met, and I like it.
I like it so much, I’ve already imagined a few different futures with her — although how different can they really be if we end up married with kids in all of them?
I scold myself for even entertaining thoughts like that about a complete stranger — especially after the train-wreck of a relationship I just hauled my heavy heart away from.
I look at the beautiful woman in front of me and attempt to grasp a more rational, realistic perspective, but my desire to start a family with her remains. Shit… Is it stronger than ever? What is this? Aside from inappropriate, that is.
Am I having a midlife crisis? Because it feels like my biological clock is in hyper-drive.
I used to think only women experienced instinctual urges to procreate, but I’m finding it hard to look at Lana without having “making babies” come to mind.
I push the thought aside, but it keeps coming back.
I can’t seem to shake the thought of my kids having her blond curls, no matter how many times I try.
It’s a good thing she’s talking about a one-night-only event, or I’d be asking her to help me check some shit off my list.
Can I keep you?
Forever?
Would you marry me and mother my children?
Unlikely. So, so unlikely. Reality hits with a gut punch, and I drag my hand down my face.
The not-yet-rusty dagger someone else lodged in my chest twists a little deeper, and I focus all my attention on the nice girl in front of me so I don’t have to think about the mean one who carved up my heart.
I smile through the pain and try to imagine myself as young and unscathed as the beautiful girl across the table.
“Is Bates your first name or last name?” she asks.
“First.”
Her eyebrows lift sweetly. “Interesting.”
I snort. “I assure you it’s the only thing about me that is.”
Her gaze drops to the ink on my arm, following the art until it disappears beneath my rolled-up shirt sleeves. “I doubt that. What questions did you have for me in that long-answer version of your affirmative response to my proposal?”
I sip my beer, considering the mouthful she just said.
As far as I know, only intellectual academic-types talk like that. That’s not the kind of crowd I usually hang out with, but I don’t hate it — quite the opposite, actually. It’s new to me, and refreshing. Every time she opens her mouth, she sparks some new, exciting thing inside me.
There’s a good chance I’m going to bore the shit out of her when I speak, though.
Probably best to let her do all the talking, so she doesn’t figure that out and change her mind about me.
For some unfathomable reason, she’s chosen to invite me on a saucy adventure, and I don’t want to disappoint her.