3 #2
Blake stared down at the mess. ‘Well. We all saw that moment coming.’
He tried not to laugh. ‘You all right?’
‘Oh, totally,’ she said, patting her shirt with a napkin. ‘Just losing my dignity and sensation in my tastebuds. Nothing I’m not used to.’
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out travel wipes. Held them out.
Blake blinked. ‘Do you carry those everywhere?’
‘I knew what I was getting into when I said yes to a second date with you.’
She took one and blotted the stain. ‘You asked me on a second date, remember? You called a radio station. Live. On air. You ambushed me with charm.’
He grinned. ‘And you said maybe.’
‘I said wobbly maybe,’ she corrected. ‘That’s legally distinct.’
‘Well, I took that gamble. And now here we are.’ He gestured to the drying fettuccine. ‘In our natural habitat.’
‘Covered in carbs and poor life choices?’
He stepped closer, his smile softer now. ‘I don’t think this is a poor choice.’
Her stomach fluttered.
They plated their pasta and he poured generous glasses of montepulciano, handing her one.
They sat side by side at the bench, shoulders touching.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Serious question. We’ve been on two dates and I still don’t know what you do.’
‘I’m a teacher.’
She blinked. ‘Really?’
‘Science. Year seven and up.’
‘That’s unexpectedly hot.’
‘Most people say underpaid.’
She clinked his glass. ‘To underpaid charm.’
She swirled her wine. ‘Okay. What’s wrong with you? You’ve got a great job, killer bod, weirdly skilled dough hands, and you haven’t spilled sauce on yourself once tonight. I’m guessing thirty-five. So why are you single?’
‘I’m not perfect.’
‘Do you own your house?’
He winced. ‘There it is.’
‘Renting?’
‘I’ve got a housemate,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to save for something, but the city gets more expensive every time I blink.’
She nodded. ‘Reasonable. I mean, the competition’s fierce out there. That’s what’s pushing the prices up. That almost sounds like actual maturity.’
They both laughed. His hand found hers under the bench.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t push the want away.
The wine was good. The flirting was better. Her thigh was pressed to his, grounded by the contact. And she stayed exactly where she was.
She dipped her fork back into her bowl, pulse quickening despite herself. Maybe she did want something. Maybe.
He glanced at her empty glass. ‘Want to keep this going?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you suggesting a third course?’
The tiramisu round had been a casualty of conversation. Neither of them had noticed the instructor packing up around them. ‘I’m suggesting a nightcap. There’s a place nearby with the best espresso martinis in the city.’
‘Sounds like me,’ she said.
He placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her towards the door. ‘Come on. We can walk there.’
The night air was warm in that late-summer Melbourne way. They strolled down a quiet laneway lit with fairy lights. A tram rattled in the distance.
His hand brushed hers once. Then again.
She looked up. He met her eyes.
His fingers slipped between hers.
And at the corner, they paused beneath a streetlamp.
‘I was going to kiss you back there,’ he said.
She tilted her head. ‘You missed your window.’
‘Did I?’
Then he stepped forward and kissed her.
It started soft. The kind of kiss that asked a question and waited for an answer.
Her hands found his shoulders. His settled at her hips.
A squeeze. Too firm. A flicker of discomfort flared in her side, but his mouth was warm, and her heart was doing something it hadn’t done in a long time.
They reached the bar, tucked behind a narrow doorway marked by a neon sign: Spro & Co.
Inside, velvet booths and golden light. A slow remix thrummed through hidden speakers.
They slid into a booth.
‘Two espresso martinis,’ he told the waiter.
And the drinks arrived. Silky, strong, perfect bite.
He leaned back. ‘This is a great date. But it’s not the one I had in mind.’
‘Oh?’ she asked.
‘I was going to keep it simple. Coffee, a walk, nothing too engineered. But then all of Melbourne got involved.’
She laughed. ‘So the pasta and public meddling aren’t your idea of romance?’
‘I’m saying I still owe you the date I actually wanted to take you on.’
She smiled. ‘Let’s see where this one takes us first.’
His hand found her thigh. Her pulse jumped.
He leaned in. ‘Did you want to come back to mine?’
Her breath caught. She nodded.
‘I’ll just grab the bill,’ he said. ‘Back in a sec.’
She watched him disappear towards the bar. Her chest felt light. She was already imagining how she’d describe this to Chelsea tomorrow.
She picked up her phone from the table.
A message blinked.
Fettuccine Guy [1 image attached] ‘Mate, make yourself scarce. Think I’m about to tick off my bucket list. Radio royalty and a redhead in one night.’
The photo was of her. Taken from behind. Just now, sipping her drink.
Her stomach dropped.
Blake stared at the screen. Radio royalty. Redhead. Bucket list.
She wasn’t a person to him. She was a trophy.
The waiter cleared a nearby table. The couple at the next booth laughed. The world kept spinning while hers stopped.
Her hands were steady as she grabbed her bag and stood up. She thought she might cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Just cold emptiness spreading outwards.
She made it three steps before he appeared, receipt in hand, that easy smile still there.
‘Ready to go?’ he asked, reaching for her hand.
Blake pulled back. ‘I’ve got a ride.’ Her phone buzzed. Your driver is 1 minute away.
His smile faltered. ‘What? Why? Did something happen?’
She held up her phone, showing him the screen. ‘I think this was intended for your housemate.’
She watched the colour drain from his face.
‘Blake, I didn’t mean—’
‘Don’t.’ Her voice held steady. ‘Just don’t.’
She walked past him, through the golden light and velvet booths, past the other couples having perfectly lovely second dates.
Outside, her Uber was already there. Sometimes the universe threw you a bone.
As the car pulled away, she didn’t look back. Her phone buzzed. She knew it was him.
She turned it face down. Her thumb moved towards Chelsea’s number, then stopped. No. Not yet. The shame was too fresh, too raw.
Tomorrow, she’d have to face Chelsea. Face Mack. Face a whole city that was invested in her disaster of a love-life.
But tonight, she just wanted to go home, pour a very large wine, and figure out how to tell Morgan that Mum had buggered up the dating thing.
Again.