Complicated Girl (8 page)

Rory’s face lights up. “They loved the tea cakes. We got booked for three more jobs, right on the spot. I couldn’t be happier. That’s why I’m paying for your dinner tonight, not the other way around.”

“We’ll see about that.” We look over the menus and place our order with the waitress. Rory’s not sure if she wants a drink or not, so I take the liberty of getting a bottle of
pinot grigio
, largely because I love saying, “
Pinot grigio
.”

We get our food, and we talk some more about Rory’s catering, plus a few things about life at the flower shop, and updates on my mother’s Eat-Pray-Love adventures in Europe.

I’m intentionally holding back on mentioning Drew until she’s got some wine in her system, and is weighted down with post-linguini-eating inertia.

Funny thing about Rory: she can’t say
linguini
because the word reminds her of
cunnilingus
. So, she orders “these noodles” and points to the menu.
That Rory.
She can’t say it, but she’ll eat it.

Anyway, I’m about to open my mouth and tell her about my new crush on Mr. GQ with the good smells, when the universe decides to play a hilarious trick on me.

I look up at the group of guys playing pool at the nearby pool table. My eyeballs wander over a guy’s butt, as eyeballs often do.

I’m admiring the nice butt—which is wearing dark jeans—when the butt turns around suddenly. I am a lady, which means I cannot openly stare at crotches, so I jerk my eyes up, over a shirt that’s packed with all the right kind of muscles, and up to a handsome face. This guy has a superhero jaw, great skin, lickable cheeks, and sexy dark hair. He could be a twin of my crush from self-help group. Or a clone.

He waves over at me. Hot guys in pubs don’t usually wave at me, therefore I must conclude that Rory has forced me to drink too much wine, and I am drunk.

He says a few words to the guys he’s playing pool with, and saunters over to our table.

“Drew! I didn’t recognize you with your clothes on.” My words come out pretty clear, considering how much wine Rory made me drink. On a scale of one to ten on the slurr-o-meter, I’d say I’m at a three.

He grabs a chair from a nearby table and joins us without being invited. His sexy brown eyes are on me the whole time, which is good, because now Rory is pinned in the corner, and if Drew focused his magnificent, magnetic, majestic attention directly at her, Rory’s head would pop right off like a Barbie doll head and roll away.

“You mean you didn’t recognize me without my suit,” Drew says, his perfectly kissable lips curled back in a grin. “A man is not his suit, Meenie.”

He starts to turn toward Rory to introduce himself. I let out a tiny shriek and grab his shoulder to pull him toward me. I whisper in his ear, “My friend is very shy, so do me a solid and dial your sex magic down about three notches, will ya?”

He gives me an amused look, then shuffles his chair closer to mine, to give her space. Without looking directly at Rory, he says, “Sorry to barge in on your meal.”

I introduce them. “Rory, this is Drew. I met him at the community center.” I give her two winks, to let her know that by
community center
, I mean my self-help group. “I’ll get rid of him, if you want.”

Rory’s body language is stiff, but she doesn’t seem too horrified. “Don’t be silly. Of course your friend can join us.” Her voice is pitched high and thin, like she’s making an effort, but it’s okay. Rory isn’t afraid of men, just intimacy stuff.

That means this situation is okay, because Drew and I are just friends. His knee is touching mine.
We’re just friends.
He gets more relaxed in his chair, waves for the waitress to bring another bottle of wine, and then his hand moves down from the air to land on my knee. We’re just friends. But his hand is on my knee.

I give Rory a wide-eyed look, but she’s not even paying attention to me. Drew is telling her about the guys he’s here playing pool with. They used to be on a rugby team together, back in college, and they still get together sometimes for a few drinks. Now Rory’s asking him about rugby, and is it as violent as it seems on TV? Now he’s telling her about men’s bodies slamming together. I would expect her to run screaming any second, but she seems to be enjoying every word he’s saying.

Meanwhile, his big, masculine palm remains on my knee. The heat is radiating into me, making my whole body warm and tingly. The waitress brings a fresh bottle and pours me some much-needed refreshment.

Drew’s hand doesn’t stray from my leg. It doesn’t move up, or down. His hand reminds me of those orange traffic cones people put in parking spots to reserve them for later.
This is mine. Find another parking spot, because I’ve claimed this one, and I’m going to do exciting, adventurous, intimate things in this parking spot. Not now, but later, under the cover of night.

Rory says, “What do you think, Meenie?”

“About what?”
I think my nipples are turning into orange parking spot cones, but you don’t want to hear about that, Rory.

She laughs, seemingly even more comfortable with this situation than I am. “What’s more manly, guys slamming into each other on a rugby field, or grunting over each other in a wrestling ring?” She looks over at Drew and explains, “Meenie was on the wrestling team in high school.”

He gives my knee a delightful squeeze, the kind of squeeze that sends pure delight through my muscles and veins and bones.

Chuckling, he says, “Why am I not surprised? Did you trash talk the other guys about their lack of balls? Did you hold the guys down until they cried?”

“I only wrestled girls.”
Well, that’s not entirely true.
“Officially.” I take a sip of refreshing wine, since my glass is too full and in danger of spilling.

“Meenie, go easy on that,” Rory says, looking at the bottle between us.

“I think the waitress is trying to get me drunk so I’ll give her a big tip.”

Drew turns to me, and just as I’m about to swallow, he says, with lusty fire in his eyes, “Do you think you can handle a big tip?”

Big tip. He means penis. The hand on my knee squeezes. I can’t swallow. Wine’s in my mouth.

He waggles his eyebrows.

My throat clenches, and the wine sprays from my mouth, in a perfect spray—
perfect
if you were, say, filming it, not perfect if you were hoping to stay dry during your visit to the pub. The wine lightly coats Drew’s handsome, GQ-pretty, lickable face, as evenly as a spray tan.

At least
pinot grigio
is a white wine. (Did you think, from the name, it was red? So did I, until this week.)

Across the table from me, Rory pushes her chair back and starts looking around urgently for the waitress.

Drew picks up a napkin from the table. Instead of wiping his face, he laughs and starts dabbing at my chin. I push his hand away. “Drew, don’t be intimate in front of Rory. You’ll make her head pop off.”

“I’m fine, you guys,” Rory says, which is about a seven on the white lie scale. “I’ve got to be up early, so I think I’ll call it a night.”

We’ve both finished eating our dinner, so I really have no excuse to beg her to stay. My only option, sadly, is the truth.

“Rory, you can’t go. Drew is in my self-help group, and we’re not allowed to be more than friends. But he’s wearing a tight-fitting shirt, and look at his face. Don’t you want to make a cake that looks like his face and eat it? You can’t leave me alone with him.”

She stands, her purse on her shoulder. “You’re a big girl,” she says, and then she leaves.

Drew uses the napkin to wipe his own face, then turns to watch Rory leave. He watches her just a few seconds too long, with his eyes just a little too low.

I grab his perfect GQ chin and turn his face back to mine. “If you look at Rory’s ass one more time, I will take you down. You’ll be eating peanut shells off the pub’s carpet, and there’s something else you should know. They haven’t served peanuts here in five years. That’s how far into the floor I’ll shove your face.”

He blinks. “I’ve never wanted to make love to a woman so badly as I do now.” He blinks again. “And that woman is you.” He blinks slowly, eyebrows raised like he’s having difficulty keeping me in focus.

“Are you drunk?”

“Noooooo.” He shakes his head emphatically. “I just had a few beers. Beer? Plural? Beers.”

I run his words through my internal slurr-o-meter. On a scale of one to ten on the slurr-o-meter, I’d say he’s at five.

His hand is back on my knee, or maybe it never left. The hand slides up, and it’s saying something.
Mine. Mine, mine, mine.

My chest gets a fluttery feeling. It’s saying something, too.
Yours. Yours, yours, yours.

“Drew, I really need my support group. It’s not for my personal problems, because I don’t have any personal problems, obviously, but going there makes me have more purpose in my life. I’ve always been good at counseling people when they come to the flower shop, whether it’s apology flowers or bereavement, or whatever. I just level with people, and they appreciate it. Usually. So, I don’t want to jeopar… leopard… jepper… damn this wine—”

I can’t finish what I’m about to say, because someone’s mouth is on my mouth.

Drew is kissing me.

O’Flannagan’s pub disappears, like someone put it on mute.

His lips are just as kissable as they look, and I’m not exaggerating at all when I say Drew’s kisses could probably stop wars and lead humanity into a new golden age of enlightenment.

He keeps kissing me, his sweet, wine-soaked, amazing lips leading the way for mine, which are stunned but happy.

His hands move up, catching me firmly on the sides of my face, which is just the framework I need to keep me upright, because his kisses are making my whole body melt like a cheap birthday candle on the cake of someone too old for birthday candles.

The whole world tilts, suddenly.

I’m falling.

Not falling in love.

Falling off my chair.

Our lips pull apart as we hit the ancient carpet of the pub’s floor.
We must be having an earthquake.
I look around in shock as we both scramble to right ourselves.

The guys over by the pool table are staring, and one calls over to us, “Need a hand there, Drew?”

“We should get into a doorway, or outside,” I tell Drew breathlessly as I jump up from the floor.

He pushes my shoulders and does the sheepdog thing again, where he herds me down into my chair. His chair is overturned, so he rights it, and takes a seat next to me.

Wincing because I already know the answer, I say, “I guess we’re not having an earthquake?”

He holds up his hand between us. “Listen, Meenie. I’m not against kissing you, but you’ve got to give a guy some warning.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who kissed me, Mr. Mouth Rugby.”

He shakes his head. “You’re crazy.”

I reach for my water glass, which has been untouched until now. I take a big drink, fuming over the nerve of Drew, lying and saying I’m the one who kissed him.

He chuckles again. “I’m glad you’re
drinking
that water, because for a minute, I thought you were going to toss it in my face.”

I stop drinking and throw the remaining second half in his face.

Sopping wet, he holds one hand to his eye. “Ow! You got me with the lemon wedge.”

“Boohoo. Let me see it.” I pull his hand down. His eye does look a little red, but there’s nothing stuck in it.

He reaches down and grabs the hem of his shirt. He pulls it all the way up, revealing a very appealing torso, and a belly button that’s downright adorable. He mops his face with the hem of his shirt, raising it higher and higher. I hold my breath as his nipples are revealed. They’re perfect. I’m not saying I wouldn’t date a guy with big pepperoni nipples, but, all things being equal, I do prefer the smaller, non-pepperoni ones.

He pulls the shirt down again and licks his lips. “Good job. You got most of the wine rinsed off.”

“I didn’t do it.” I clutch my hands tightly together on my lap. “My hand did that, not me. I think my hand might have Tourette’s.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Shut up. You are not. You’re just being contrary.”

“I have a certificate.”

“Where?”

“At my dental practice.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re a dentist, not a doctor.”

“Yes, I am. I’m Dr. Morgan.”

I shake my head. “No way. That can’t be your last name. If I married you, I’d be Megan Morgan.”

He gives me a funny look. “Tonight is certainly a fascinating journey into how your brain works. Is that your real name? Megan? Why does everyone call you Meenie?” He shakes his head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t ask. That’s something people who are dating would do, and you and I are just friends. Feather’s orders.”

“Tonight doesn’t count, because we’re both drunk.”

“Do you want to come back to my place?”

“No. I’m not interested in one night of mediocre sex.”

He smiles, which is not the reaction I expected. “Who says it’ll be mediocre? I predict it will be terrible. I am terrible in bed. Plus I’ve had a few beers, and up until recently, my balls have been in someone else’s purse.” He keeps grinning, really working the whole self-deprecating thing in a way that makes me want to cradle him in my arms and tell him everything’s going to be magical.