“You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my shoulder.
I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-in-law Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes.
“Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.”
Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?”
This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there.
“Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.”
Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly.
“Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”
I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience.
“This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.”
I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least.
“Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?”
She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.”
I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.”
She landed a soft punch in my arm.
“And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like lunatics to impress you. We drive like this because we like it.” I shifted down, punching the gas at the same time. “Correction,” I said, our heads slamming the headrests. “We
love
it.”
“Great,” she said through her teeth, her hands grasping whatever she could.
I slowed instantly. I might have loved driving fast, but I wanted her to feel safe more. I wasn’t worried about wrapping us around a cement barricade—driving came as naturally as flirting to me—but she didn’t know that.
“So where are you taking me?” she asked, her fingers loosening their grips as she relaxed in her seat.
I made note of the highest speed I could attain and still keep her comfortable. I was happy to see it was just north of the triple digits.
“Are you putting me on a private jet and flying me to the opera?” she asked out of nowhere.
Private jet wasn’t that far from the truth, but the opera was my kryptonite. At least, one of the many.
“No.” I drew out my answer. “What made you guess that?”
“The red dress, you in a tux, the fancy car,” she listed off like I was supposed to be catching on to something. “I’m having a very Pretty Woman moment right now.”
Ahhhh, now I got it. “How about this? I’ll promise you a private jet to a private opera—I’ll even buy some diamonds for you and clamp the box closed on your hand when you reach for them—if . . .” I said with a tone of expectation, “you promise to wear those shiny, black, over-the-knee stiletto boots.”
That earned me another punch, although this one was a little harder and more deserved in my opinion.
“I might not bruise as easily as you, but I’m going to be sporting a purple right arm if you keep up at that rate tonight, Rocky Balboa,” I lied, rubbing my arm.
“What? With that little love-tap?” she said with fake innocence. “And besides, you deserved it.”
“You’re going to tell me diamonds, gowns, and Learjets aren’t worth wearing some trashy boots for a few hours?” I asked, whipping across three lanes to hit the off ramp.
“It wasn’t
what
you suggested, it was
how
you suggested it,” she said, turning in her seat towards me.
“Explanation, si vous plait,” I said, turning in my seat as much as I could towards her.
She huffed, like she didn’t want to explain, but I knew her enough to know she would. “You know,” she said, “you got that dreamy, far-off look on your face when you said it. Like you were picturing me naked in them, licking a lollipop or something.”
I choked . . . on nothing. The impact of what she’d said hit me that hard. Partly because that’s not what I’d been picturing at all, but mainly because that’s right where my mind went. And I liked it. Too much.
“That’s ridiculous. You were eating a bag of pork rinds and you had on a jumpsuit,” I said, keeping a level voice.
“A skimpy jumpsuit then,” she said under her breath, “and I was probably eating those pork rinds all sexy-like.”
“You know me too well, Miss Scarlett.” I laughed, taking a hard left into the parking lot.
“The beach?” she asked, surveying the area. “You took me to the beach dressed in a formal gown?”
I had to work hard to keep a straight face. “You don’t like the beach?” I asked. “Scared of getting a little sand in your shoes?”
“No,” she answered with irritation. “I love the beach. I’ve just never experienced it in formal wear before.”
“Well you’ve never lived then,” I said, swinging my door open and hurrying around the front of the car so I could get her door before she did that twenty-first century thing girls did now of opening the door themselves. Sometimes, progress wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
I got there just in time. Opening the door, I lowered my hand to meet hers. “But we’ll save that for another time. Tonight we’ll be merely taking in the view of the beach from . . .”—my eyes pointed down the dock where a gleaming yacht towered a good ten feet higher and twenty feet longer than the rest of the shabby-by-comparison yachts around. It was the kind of boat that might make someone think to themselves,
do you think he’s compensating for something?
Good thing for me I knew I was compensating for nothing. Especially
that
.
Emma’s mouth dropped so violently it was audible. “Is that cruise ship yours?”
I shut the door, grabbed her hand, and tugged her along in her stunned state. I didn’t want to deal with another half hour debate over getting on the ship like I’d had to with her getting in the car.
“Given the way you reacted to the car,” I said, leading her down the dock. “I’d like to plead the fifth on the boat,” I understated. “Let’s leave it at that and just enjoy ourselves. Sound manageable?”
“Something tells me you’d throw me over your shoulder and tie me to a gold plated chair aboard that thing if I said no,” she said, giving in to my pulling encouragement.
“Gold plated?” I huffed, feigning insult. “That’s just tacky.” Grinning over at her, I added, “I prefer platinum.”
She rolled her eyes all the way towards the boat, where one of the handful of stewards was waiting with an outstretched hand to guide us aboard.
“How’s it hanging, Jacque?” I greeted, shaking his hand before boarding. But not before I tossed Emma in my arms.
Before she could protest like I knew she would, I hopped aboard and set her back down.
Grinning like the devil, I asked, “You were about to say?”
She made an event of checking and adjusting her gown to make sure everything was still covered and in its proper place before answering. “You know exactly what I was about to say. I’m not about to verbalize it as the only thing that will accomplish is an elevation of your smugness levels.”
I tucked my hands in my pockets. “This is the most memorable date I’ve ever been on,” I admitted, checking my watch. “And we’re only thirty minutes in,” I said, offering her my arm.
“Oh, and by the way, when the nice man welcoming us aboard addressed you by your last name, your pleading the fifth as to boat ownership was useless.” Shouldering me, she reached for my arm. “Nice boat.”
I wrenched my face into confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so maybe we should stop talking and move onto . . .”—I winked, making her eyes widen—“dinner,” I said, motioning behind her.
She spun around, but not before I detected the color bleeding through her cheeks. “Whoa,” she whispered to herself. And whoa it was, as I’d intended.
I knew it was a generally agreed upon adage that
less is more,
but it was one I’d vehemently been against my entire life.
More was more
as far as I was concerned, and in holding to this excessive tradition, the dining area prepared before us fit the bill.
Jewel toned oversized pillows, Moroccan lamps flickering with sandalwood scented candles, and a canopy of turquoise silk with a jasmine garland blew in the breeze, transporting us into another time, another world. A world where there was no one but Emma and me, and when she looked over at me, hard and purposeful, I knew she felt the same thing.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, moving towards our little piece of Morocco.
“Yes it is,” I said, staring at her as she fingered the silk rippling off the canopy.
When she looked back at me, her face was glowing, like she was two minutes into finding Neverland. “Thank you,” she said, her face happy in a way I hadn’t seen it before. Happy like she had no bad memories to taint it.
“You’re welcome,” I said, fighting off the urge to shrug it off like it was no big deal. Because it was a big deal. I’d lost count decades ago, this could have been my ten-thousandth date, but this was my first date with someone I cared about.
Truly
cared about.
Trailing her fingers along the silk, she said, “What? No witty comeback? No word play in return?” she asked, giving me a knowing look.
“Nah,” I said. “I figured you’re properly aware of how incredibly funny and downright comedic I am by now. It’s time to get to the meat and potatoes of our relationship.”
Her face dropped a little. “Meaning?”
“It’s question and answer time, baby, and since this is my date,”—I wagged my eyebrows at her—“I get to be the questioner.”
The skin between her eyebrows creased. “Sounds painful. Excruciating even.”
“Nah,” I replied, chancing a hand on the curve of her back before weaving us under the canopy. “I’ll go easy on you.”
She took my arm as she sank into one of the oversized pillows surrounding the table. “That would be reassuring if your ‘easy’ was like everyone else’s ‘easy,’” she said, a grin flickering over her mouth.
“Meaning?” I asked, lounging into the pillow across from her and moving the centerpiece to the side. Nothing was going to impair my view of her tonight.
Her eyebrows twitched upwards. “Your easy is everyone’s hard. It’s like you live your life looking for the next great challenge. The next Everest to scale. The next city to conquer,” she said, staring at me like she’d got me all figured out. “What people look at and say ‘impossible’, you say ‘bring it on.’”
Just as her stare was about to bury me where I sat, her shoulders lifted in time to the corners of her mouth. “Your easy is my hard.”
“That was deep,” I replied in my lightest tone, though I was still reeling from her words. “And scary accurate, so the first question I was going to ask you tonight will have to be superseded by this,”—I raised my index finger—“do you come from a long line of psychics? Mind readers perhaps? Voo-doo mamas?”
She put on a face that I suppose she meant to be cryptically mysterious, although all it did was make me grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
I leaned forward. “I’d like to know everything there is to know about you,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the thoughts running in the back of my mind. “Including the first and last name of the first boy you kissed.”
Her head tilted to the side. “Question number one?” she asked. “Of all the questions in the universe to ask, you want to know who was the first boy I kissed?”
“You better believe I do,” I answered immediately.
She took a sip of water before answering, “Brent Cooper. Fifth grade, at the water fountain outside of Principal McKay’s office.”
I narrowed my eyes in jest. “Lucky bastard.”
“Maybe for all of two seconds until Dallas shoved through Principal Mckay’s door after his every-other-day reprimanding and busted the water fountain after busting Brent’s face through it.” She laughed, shaking her head. “It was a two visit day to the principal’s office that day for Dallas, and Brent never so much as looked at me again.”