She’s not quite ready to let the conversation go.
Should I get the top that shows my lacy bra off just a little bit?
She thinks about him behind the counter at his bookshop, trying to keep on his Serious Face, the face for Very Serious Customers who want to discuss Very Serious Books.
You’re killing me here.
You’ve got nobody to blame but yourself on that one.
In that moment, Lexi wishes she had a flip phone like on American TV shows from the early 2000s. It feels like a suitable moment to snap a phone shut. Mic drop. End of conversation.
So she does the next best thing: she throws her phone in her bag, leaving Sam to type into the void.
Leaving him to think about her bra.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In the end, Lexi decides against the lacy bra strap scenario. Jane Austen likely wouldn’t approve, and anyway, she doesn’t actually want Sam to be too distracted. Much as part of her would like to jump into bed with him and get the sexual frustration well and truly dealt with, she also wants to know what makes him tick, why he seems like a different person when he’s teaching the piano from what he does when he’s being Mr hard-nosed Businessman. She wants to know which one is the real Sam.
They’re both attractive, in their own ways. She likes sparring with the snarky business owner. She also doesn’t hate getting to feel slightly superior, more of the expert. And as for pianist Sam, it goes without saying, doesn’t it? Deft, elegant fingers. The way his body turns almost liquid with emotion when he plays, like he’s putting his whole self into it. The smoothness of the music that results from all this. And then the way he looks at Lexi so kindly when she does something as deeply impressive as playing a C major scale with both hands at once.
Which Sam will show up at dinner?
Which one will show up in bed?
If they get there, that is. Lexi knows she shouldn’t assume.
But she’s shaved above the knee and all other relevant body parts and moisturised all over; she’s got a couple of condoms in her bag on the off chance he’s not prepared. (The chances of that are less than zero, but it doesn’t hurt to make doubly sure.) She sang ‘The Sexy Getting Ready Song’ fromCrazy Ex-Girlfriendas she did her make-up, bleached the not-quite-light-enough hair on her top lip, and carefully picked out her perfume (Armani Sì Passione seems appropriate).
So, yes, she’s pretty much assuming.
In the end, Lexi decided not to reinvent the wheel for her first date attire. Instead, she’s wearing a trusty favourite: one of her best sundresses, with pockets and a sweetheart neckline and blocks of colour that from a distance look like books on shelves. She likes both the illusion and the allusion, and of course, on this occasion, the appropriateness of it.
Walking down 8th Street to Belga, she finds Sam outside in what Americans call a button-down shirt, in blue and white plaid, and not that interesting, and yet somehow, on him, classy and smart. She gives him a little wave, wiggling her fingers when he catches her eye, and resists the temptation to speed up her steps. Casual. Nonchalant. But she flashes him her happiest smile, because that is just what her face spontaneously does at this point when she sees him, the delight at being here with him, her mortal enemy just three months ago. And possibly still her mortal enemy now. She’ll have to see how the evening goes, and if his intentions are honourable. Or, preferably, slightly dishonourable.
‘Hi,’ she says, and then, babbling to fill the silence. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
Sam looks at his watch– an actual watch! Why is that so attractive? Is it just the impression it gives of his being a real grown-up, not like the boys on Capitol Hill who play at being Adult and Important? ‘Only two minutes. Didn’t you say that your people consider that to be on time?’
She nods. ‘We do.’
‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘Hi.’ He leans in and kisses her cheek. Chastely, but also lingering there slightly longer than, say, the French seem to when they’re genuinely just saying hello. His lips on Lexi’s skin feel like a promise, and he smells clean and bright and earthy. All of which might be more gallant and classy than a giveaway sight of, say, a lacy bra strap, but she’s guessing the impact of it is similar to what the bra strap would have had on him. The hairs on Lexi’s arms stand to attention in a way they never have during a Hinge date. The promise of the evening lingers in the air along with his clean and sexy scent.
‘Thank you for making time for me in your busy schedule.’ Once upon a time, all of three months ago, her sentence would have been dripping with contempt. Today, though, it’s playful and flirtatious.
‘Likewise,’ he says. Then: ‘Shall we?’
Sam leads Lexi to the hostess stand, his hand on the small of her back. He does it lightly, and yet he might as well be plugging her into an electric current. They have a window seat: her favourite for watching the world and the great and the good of Capitol Hill go by, though she has a feeling she won’t be doing that tonight.
She notices now that he’s had a haircut. He looks so smart and suave. She would happily just stare at him all night. But she’s also hungry, so she tears her eyes away and fixes them on the menu. Her heart needs a little break from the view, anyway, so that it doesn’t explode.
‘You look lovely tonight,’ he says, his hand over hers as she tries desperately to care about what she’ll be eating. She looks up.
‘Thank you.’ She resists, for now, the cheesiness of aYou don’t look so bad yourself; she resistsI like to make an effort now and then. She just takes the compliment and enjoys this romantic moment. ‘I’m glad we’re doing this.’ She looks down at the menu. She’s hungry, yes, but she’s also feeling shy, suddenly, and awkward. They’ve mostly had two modes, she and Sam: snarky and sparring, and friendly and flirtatious; and with the second of those, there’s usually a bed in the corner of the room, adding that edge of titillation and invitation to further adventure. There’s a metaphorical bed in the corner of the room now too, of course.
Lexi usually likes to indulge at Belga. Mussels andfrites, maybe a steak, a chocolate dessert. This isn’t a place she comes for a quick weeknight dinner with friends to catch up or a post-shift drink with her staff. This is a treat-yourself place, and so she usually goes all in on the treating herself. But there’s that metaphorical bed, and the very real one too, and she can’t be so stuffed that all she can do is lie very still for an hour or two after dinner.
She looks longingly at the bread they bring.It’s bread or frites, she tells herself.You can’t have both, or you’ll regret it later.
