Chapter 6
Chapter six
Bellatrix
How did I go from having to seduce my best friend’s dad, maybe sabotaging his businesses a little to throw shade all over his name, and wrecking his wedding to trying to find the best, life-changing places in Providence?
I can think of a few experiences that are right up there for me.
Watching a sunset over the water. Eating what is probably the world’s best tacos.
Sitting on a swing alone at the park at night.
Skinny dipping at the beach. Going to the botanical gardens.
Hiking a few of the trails around here, stargazing, cooking, visiting my favorite bookstore, hitting up a few of the antique stores, going to a symphony or a play, meditating for half an hour in the morning, along with my morning yoga routine.
Oh, and petting a cat when I can find one that wants to be petted. Scratching a dog’s ears…
There are so many great and wonderful underrated and unappreciated things to do in life that bring real joy, but I have this feeling that Rowleigh will scoff at half of them and flat-out refuse to do the other half. He’s probably experienced many of them already.
Yes. Rowleigh. Rowleigh Bellhopper. The. Rowleigh. Bellhopper.
I have to start thinking about using his name, not Mika’s dad, the bartender, the mystery stranger, the total hottie, the zaddy guy…
I have a sort of date that’s not a date, the first of three wishes, to help him discover the secret of happiness that all the money in the world can’t buy because if it could, he’d already know it.
My god, what have I gotten myself into?
Also, going skinny dipping or swinging in a park after dark when we don’t have children are good ways to get arrested, and while that’s certainly an experience, it’s not exactly the vibe I’m going for.
I caught the bus, and it’s only a few blocks to Where the Sun Do Shine.
It’s the best taco place in Providence. It’s so busy that you need a reservation to get in, which I made a few days ago as soon as Rowleigh left my office.
I had to take the eight-twenty-eight spot since I couldn’t get anything near the dinner hour.
I texted Rowleigh an address near the bus stop since I wanted to make sure he didn’t know what the surprise was ahead of time.
Also? I texted because I couldn’t bring myself to call.
I could barely hold it together while he was in my office and when I put Mika’s plan into motion.
Sort of. I think I kind of fucked it up and played into it all at once.
I mean, it’s not like we had this ironclad set of instructions we needed to follow or anything.
I’m just out here, flying by the seat of my pants, and my pants are very much screaming what the fuck?
I made sure I was early, mostly because I had a fear of the bus being way late. That means I currently have twenty minutes to pace up and down the street, getting my chill back on. Never mind what the fuck pants, I’m wearing no pants.
This isn’t a date. I want to be clear and careful with that, mostly for the benefit of myself.
But I still wore a nice dress. Something summery and floral.
It was expensive, and I’ve had gosh darn few opportunities to wear it, but tonight is the night.
Since I knew we’d be outside late and I didn’t want to get cold or bitten by the evening’s offerings of massive swarms of mosquitoes, I dressed it down with a dark purple lightweight cardigan.
I hardly wore any makeup, but that was only because I tamed my curls into a breezy updo that was maximum effort while managing to look casual.
I wore flats for walking. After a day in heels, my feet would have rebelled clean off my body if I’d attempted anything else. I’m ruminating on how sore they are and how bad this idea is when a flashy red sports car zips by and pulls into a parking space just down the street.
My heart practically chokes me as it rams into my throat.
It’s too late to get back on a bus—any bus—and text Rowleigh that the whole thing is off, including the wedding planning. I like my messes mediocre, thank you, and this has all the trappings of turning into a flaming hot, spectacular mess.
But it’s way too late because Rowleigh is striding down the sidewalk in a black button-up that molds to his perfect muscly chest, arms, and sinful shoulders, and he’s literally turning every head out here.
Paired with a charcoal set of pants that are no doubt doing as great a thing for his backside as they are for the front, half of those head-turns morph into back stares.
He’s hot enough to kindle a bonfire after a month of rain, but he’s still Mika’s dad. I need to drill that into my brain and have it be a bad thing, not something my lady bits get all shivery over.
I try to strike a casual pose, but I probably look like I’ve just bent over and had someone pitch a cactus straight into my hind end.
“Hey.” I grasp my purse strap, causing the fringe on the suede bag to shimmy.
My lungs work double time trying to drag in air.
“Dinner’s a few blocks that way.” I point in the wrong direction. “I mean…this way.”
I make the mistake of not moving fast enough. His feet are already in motion, so he gets slightly ahead of me, which means I get a full view of his ass in those pants, and yup. They prove they’re a true museum, showcasing a lovely piece of carved artistry.
My belly flips as my brain paints the smuttiest picture of me doing something wicked to that sculpture with my tongue.
I speed up, falling into step beside Rowleigh, though he has a quick walking pace that makes me breathless by the time we’re standing in front of the taco joint.
His eyes track slowly to my face, almost in accusation. Beneath the shadow of stubble lining his jaw and his normally tanned complexion, he’s gone pale. He rakes a hand through his hair like he did in my office when he was stressed, messing up strands I’d like to use as a handhold while I—
Wow, congrats. You’ve made it half a second without objectifying your best friend’s father.
He eyes the glowing sign, a neon guy with a great big smile and a taco in each hand. “Why this place?”
“It’s the best place in the freaking state, that’s why.”
“Tacos,” he groans.
“Yes, tacos. Who doesn’t like tacos? It’s an experience of a lifetime. An item to cross off your bucket list before you even knew it was a thing.”
I expect him to at least crack a small smile and give it a go, but I don’t expect Mr. High and Mighty with a Refined Palate for Thousand Dollar Steaks to reel away and actually gag. He even bends at the waist, all dramatic, but nothing happens.
Thank goodness.
“Whoa! If you’re a taco hater, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I’m in panic mode. When Rowleigh straightens, he’s as green as a seasick dog. “We could get chili cheese fries. Nachos. Homemade ice cream. They have all of it.”
“I’m not going in there.”
What did tacos ever do to him? “Okay, well, that’s not a problem. We can just go for a walk along the water. I know of a few other places that aren’t that far, but they’re not once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Wait, no. Scratch that. This one little food shack has the best deep-fried pickles.”
He puts up a hand, green on green. “I just need a minute. Bad eating competition gone wrong back in the day. Terrible memories.”
That explains a lot.
I once threw up pizza. I couldn’t look at pizza again for years without dying a little inside.
My mom explained to me in her best doctor voice that once the body thinks it’s been poisoned by something, it’s a biological imperative from our caveman brains not to want to eat it again. Self-preservation at its finest.
My brain puts all its might into Operation Comatose, checking out when I need it the most. I have…
nothing. No alternative. No backup plan.
It’s not dark enough to skinny dip or swing at the park, but I already established that while amazingly freeing, those activities run the inherent risk of getting us arrested, and that’s not exactly first-date material.
Not that this is a date.
Inspiration hits me as my brain starts running wild at the word date, trickling in all the X-rated off-limits images of Rowleigh, the lounge, and the piano.
Piano.
“Down by the water, they have a piano. It’s one of those public ones that’s been painted all funky. It’s in a little gazebo, and anyone can play it.”
I probably just imagine the way color rushes back into Rowleigh’s face. He looks decidedly less sick. Taco crisis averted.
Before my body can get all wobbly and off-kilter at all Rowleigh’s hotness within a one-mile radius, I set off. My flats come in handy as I powerwalk the eight blocks, and he easily keeps pace beside me.
He doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence until we get stuck waiting at a never-ending light at an impossibly long intersection for the lit-up man to start blinking. “Tacos is your idea of seizing life by the balls?”
Ouch. His voice is completely without inflection, but I can hear the roast in it. I get what he’s thinking. I’m not giving up my business deal and messing up my whole life for any kind of eats, no matter how good they are.
My brain very helpfully supplies a great counterargument. If he was eating your pussy or treating you to his hotdog, he might change his tune.
Thank fuck the light finally changes, and we can walk across. We have to hustle to make it to the other side of the long intersection before cars start zooming around us in all directions. Distractions are a great thing.
But the clouds crowding together in the sky and turning an ominous grey, and the wind suddenly picking up? Not so great.
I crane my neck up to check out the gathering gloom. I did check the weather before I caught the bus, and there was nothing about a storm of any kind.