“I was wondering if you might want to go out on a date … with me?”
“You, uh … you want to go out on adate?”
She could practically see his shoulders shrug over the phone, black leather moving just a fraction of an inch as one lone eyebrow quirked up. “Yeah. I mean we told our families that we’re dating, but we’ve never been on a date.”
“Oh!” Where was this sudden bit of romance coming from? Had his mother intervened? It seemed like something Joy would berate him about.
“So, dinner and a movie?”
Krista caught herself smiling in the window reflection. “Yeah, that sounds great.”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Before she could make some corny joke about the fact that they lived together and would be getting ready to go out together, he said a quick goodbye and hung up.
Well, that was strangely wonderful.
For the rest of the day, despite her heartbreaking lunch with the girls, Krista was happy. She was going on a date with Brock Hart. Brock Lionel Hart had asked to her go out with him. And then the gooey, mushy girl in her really kicked in, and she envisioned the two of them sitting in the movie theater, his arm casually draped around hers as she snuggled under his big leather jacket, because theaters are notoriously cold. She would have stupidly left her coat in his truck. And then they’d share a goodnight kiss on the front porch and talk about wanting to see each other again, only to then both go into the house, take off their coats and shoes, brush their teeth and hump like bunnies. Of course.
She thought for sure he’d be home when she got home just after six o’clock, but he wasn’t. Figuring that dinner and a movie was a casual date, and that ninety percent of her dress clothes no longer fit, she went with dark wash skinny jeans, only she didn’t do up the button and wore one of those belly band things instead and a black cashmere long-sleeve sweater.
She was just adding a touch of lip gloss in the hallway mirror when the doorbell chimed. And there he stood. With a beautiful bouquet of flowers, a box of chocolates and a nervous smile. Looking drop-dead freaking gorgeous in dark jeans, a gray sweater with a white collared shirt poking out the top, and of course, his customary leather jacket.
“Hey.”
Krista mentally told the butterflies in her belly to calm down and then took a deep breath. “Hi.”
He leaned in and pecked her on the cheek. “You look beautiful tonight.”
She opened the door so he could come inside. “You look really great, too.” And that smell, oh lord, she was ready to skip the date and just get to the naughty parts of the night.
“These are for you.”
She accepted the gifts, then started to climb the stairs. Was she supposed to invite him up? It was his house. This was weird.But he followed her and took a seat in his chair.
“Can I … can I offer you a beer?” After all, it washisbeer.
He shook his head. “No, thanks, I’m driving. Reservations are for seven thirty. Are you about ready to go?”
He made reservations? She was busy bumbling around in the kitchen looking for a vase. Could she ask him where he kept the vases in this little role play of theirs? Or was that against the rules? Were they even role playing?
He found her in the kitchen looking mighty frazzled. “What are you looking for?”
“A vase,” she murmured, opening cupboards and drawers, even though she knew damn well a vase couldn’t fit in a drawer. The man and his romanticisms were throwing her completely off guard.
“Oh. I don’t have any.”
She shot him a look.Then where were the flowers going to go?
He must have read her mind and the slight bit of frustration radiating off her; abandoning his role as suitor, he knelt down on the floor next to her feet and opened the cupboard beneath the sink.
His head still buried in the deep recesses of the cabinet, an arm came snaking out. “Here, will this work?” He thrust a beautiful old glass pitcher into her hands. It was rather heavy and had floral etchings on the sides. Something that would go perfectly with an afternoon brunch, carrying cool, crisp pink lemonade.So why on earth did he have it?
“Why do you have such a lovely pitcher?” She began to fill it with water. He went to the job of extracting his monstrous frame from the cupboard, joints snapping as he stood up.
He shook his head dismissively. “I think my mother may have given it to me or something.”
She hastily put the flowers in water, looked longingly at the chocolates, promising them she wouldn’t be long, that’d they’d be together soon, grabbed her coat, slid into her ankle boots, and they were out the door.
