“I don’t think you can find out if someone’s right for you by asking those staid, boring questions,” she goes on.
“Howdoyou find out then?”
She gives a hopeful shrug. “By asking if they blast music while they drive, or if they’ve ever bungee jumped, or what was the last thing they googled.”
The bartender returns with our drinks. We thank him, and then she lifts a glass to toast. “To noticing things,” she says. “And to very smooth saves. The phone callandthe table? That was well played, Banks.”
As she sips, her gaze strays around the bar to some of the booths in the corner, a little more private. I like to think I can read the room. Read a woman too. “Want that table?”
She pauses, but not like she’s reluctant. More like she’s weighingmy offer, writing a pros and cons list in her head. I’d love to know what’s in each column, but mostly I want her yes.
It comes seconds later as she says, “You know what? I do.”
Yep, that business proposal can wait a little longer.
I take our drinks, tucking my tablet under my arm and grabbing my paper butterfly from where I left it when I got up. As we weave through the tables, I stay very,veryclose to her. Just in case. But I give myself a long enough leash to drink in the view of her as we go. The fall of her shiny blond hair over her shoulders, the sway of her hips, the slap of her flip-flops against the concrete floor. She holds a small clutch purse. A sliver of a farmer’s tan peeks out by the strap of the cami under that hoodie, while a few freckles dot her nose. She’s right that dates shouldn’t be about CVs, but I’m still curious who she is. She doesn’t have the polished reserve of a banker or a lawyer. She’s not a city girl, either, by her own admission. Bet she runs a store, maybe a café, possibly a bar.
When we reach the booth, she meets my eyes straight on. “You’re a very good boyfriend tonight.”
Tonight.
A reminder that what we do doesn’t matter. This is a one-night-only kind of thing, and that’s fine by me. “I blast music in my car,” I tell her. “So loud it shakes.”
Her smile spreads deliciously. Playfully. “And does everyone know you’re coming from the Mozart sonata?”
That image is too much. And scarilyalmostaccurate. “You know, Ripley? I bet they can.” Then I slide a little closer because, yes, I can read the room, and I fucking like what it says.
An hour later, we switch to water—her idea, since she says she has a two-drink limit. “So, yes, I did, in fact, bungee jump for the first time when I was twenty-five.” She sets down her water with a defiant clink. “It was my friend Chloe’s idea. Since then, I’ve gone surfing, white-water rafting, and also, Black Friday shopping at six a.m.”
“Don’t tell me it was a Walmart.”
“It was,” she says, sitting straighter, then holding up her hands in defense. “Look, they were having a fantastic sale on mulch. I couldn’t pass it up.”
My brow creases. “Mulch? Was that a holiday gift for someone?” I don’t bother to hide how much I don’t want mulch as a gift.
“No, but it’s the way tomyheart,” she says. I note that detail—she’s an outdoorsy girl through and through. Maybe a gardener. “I bought it for myself. Besides, it was half off. I love deals,” Ripley confesses. “But now that you know my answers,” she begins, and yup, I’ve learned that rather than a goldfish, she has a summa dog—some of this, some of that—named Hudson and she likes music she can sing along to. She’s also direct, confident, and a little tough, in a good way. She gives me a fierce look and says, “I want to know something about you that’s not on the list.”
If she asks, after all, what I do for a living, I’m not sure I’ll tell her. It opens up too many questions. But I do like her tenaciousness, and I’m a little taken with her already, so I gamble. “Sure. Try me.”
“What’s with the origami?” She looks down at the butterfly I was making earlier.
Ah, that’s easier to answer. “Oh, this thing?”
She rolls her eyes.“Oh, this?Why yes, that was just a little play I wrote one afternoon. Had no idea anyone would be into that dude named Romeo and his lady Juliet. Just that thing.”
I smile, smugly. “You think my origami is Shakespeare-level? Why, thank you.”
“It’s…well, an unusual hobby for…” She looks me up and down, perhaps not wanting to saya guybecause it would sound sexist.
And I think I’ll have a little fun with her. “For a temporary boyfriend?” I ask, like I’m a little confused.
“You know what I mean.”
“For a whiskey sour drinker?”
“C’mon, Banks!”
“For a Mozart aficionado?”
