Two Last First Dates Page 11

I crinkled my forehead. “Why would a delivery guy be good at spreadsheeting?”

  Bailey shot me a look I couldn’t read. “Oh, Josh is—”

  “Hey, you two,” a voice said, interrupting Bailey mid-sentence. We looked up and saw Marissa leaning over the counter. “You’ve got customers out here.”

  Bailey leaped up from her seat. “Sorry. We were lost in numbers, weren’t we, Paige?”

  “I’ve got this. You do your work,” I said to her. I took three short strides over toward the counter. “Thanks, Marissa.”

  “No problem. And Bailey? I’ve got some info for you on you-know-what.” Marissa raised her eyebrows at me meaningfully.

  My belly flip-flopped. I knew exactly what “you-know-what” was. I hoped they’d be through the vetting process soon and he would come out smelling of roses.

  “I think you’re going to love this guy, Paige,” she added.

  “Well, that is the general idea,” Bailey said with a laugh.

  My smile almost reached my ears, it was so wide. It was almost time, and I couldn’t wait for them to finally send me on my Last First Date with Marcus.

  Chapter 11

  I DIDN’T HAVE TO wait until Bailey and Marissa gave me their Last First Date blessing to see Marcus again. I had said goodbye to Bailey at the end of my shift, leaving her sitting at one of the tables, working on her spreadsheets.

  “What are you up to now?” she asked, looking up from her laptop at me.

  I shrugged. “Heading home, I guess. It’s my night to cook for Dad and me.” An exciting evening of steamed fish and reality TV lay ahead.

  Bailey’s face creased into a grin. “Well, whatever you end up doing, I hope it’s fun.”

  I shot her a quizzical look. “You too.”

  No sooner had I closed the café door behind myself than I spotted Marcus, leaning against the wall of the next building. He was studying his phone but looked up with the bang of the café door, his face breaking into a grin when he spotted me.

  Excitement at the sight of him, standing there in his Channing Tatum yumminess, pinged around my body. “Hi, Marcus,” I breathed, as he pushed himself off the wall and sauntered over to me.

  “Good afternoon, gorgeous waitress who refuses to go out with me.”

  I smiled through my growing blush, pleased I was wearing my fifties-inspired dress with the nipped-in waist and a bucketload of va-va-voom. How could I explain we needed to wait just a little longer until we could be together?

  “I . . .” I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. I couldn’t think of a single word to say in response. He was right; I had refused to go out with him, but only because I had to. Should I say, “Oh, I have to wait for my friends to give you the seal of approval first”? It sounded so very elementary school to me, and I could only imagine how ridiculous it would sound to a grown man.

  To my relief, he winked at me and reached for my hand. “I’m just teasing you. You’re an easy wind-up, did you know that?”

  We walked slowly along the sidewalk together. I loved the feel of his hand in mine. It was warm, big and strong. My hand felt dainty and feminine in contrast. It was . . . perfect.

  “I’ve been told that.” I smiled, looking up into his eyes. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

  He stopped, turned, and looked at me. “Bailey said you finished now. I thought we could grab a coffee together.”

  I smiled up at him. “I’d like that.” He was so good-looking and his hand was so right in mine, I was at serious risk of swooning right there on the street.

  He slipped his arm casually around my waist, and we began walking once more. “Good. It can be our first date.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Our first date? Our Last First Date? My mind began to whirr faster and faster until it hit overdrive. Marcus had spoken to Bailey, and now we were going on a date? Could this really be happening?

  “Our . . . what?” I asked, almost breathless.

  “Our first date.” He crinkled his forehead. “Are you okay? You’ve gone kind of pale. Is the idea of going out with me that hideous?”

  “No, this is . . . great. So, you said you talked with Bailey?”

  He nodded, looking suddenly uncertain. “Yes.”

  “And she was okay with this?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “With us going for a cup of coffee together?”

  I nodded, biting my lip, my hands clenched at my sides in anticipation.

  He shrugged, smiling. “Yes.”

  A potent concoction of relief and exhilaration flooded through me. So, this was my Last First Date! This was momentous! I was about to go out for coffee with the guy my friends had approved as my future husband. Marcus was my future husband. My life flashed before my eyes. I wondered how long we would date before he proposed, what our wedding would be like, where we’d live, how many children we’d have.

  He squeezed me, bringing me back to earth. “What do you say?”

  I beamed at him. “I say, let’s do this. Let’s go on our first date.”

  I pulled my phone out of my purse and texted a “thank you!” to Bailey. She responded a few seconds with “you’re welcome,” and I slid my phone back in my purse, smiling to myself.

  And oh, the date with Marcus was wonderful. We went to a café a couple of blocks away—not my cup of tea, all chrome and glass and self-satisfied baristas with ironic beards—ordered coffee and sat talking and laughing and flirting for the rest of the afternoon.

  And it felt so good, so right. I could hardly believe my luck; my friends had chosen me the perfect guy, and I was like a pig in a large sty of mud.

  The coffee turned into a walk along the waterfront, and then into an early dinner at an Ethiopian restaurant Marcus recommended. Although I’d eaten food from around the world, I’d never had Ethiopian food before and was impressed with Marcus’s taste and sophistication.

  “What did you do before you worked at the Cozy Cottage?” he asked, holding my hand atop the table, what must be Ethiopian music playing in the background. We were sitting so close together, there was no room for uncertainty.

  “I used to work at AGD, the telecommunications company.”

  Confusion crossed his Hollywood handsome face. “Pouring coffee?”

  I let out an easy laugh. “No, silly. I’m just helping Bailey out for now, until I find another job. I was in Marketing for years.”

  He raised his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Marketing, huh? Nice. I know someone at AGD. I bet you were great at your job, too.”

  I thought of how I used to turn up late to work, count the hours until the end of the day, of the way in which Helena and I would spend most of our time complaining about Princess Portia. “Absolutely.” I crossed my fingers under the table to counter the fib. Although I didn’t want to start my relationship with Marcus off on a lie, he didn’t need to know I’d hardly been the employee of the year.

  “What are your next steps? Got anything lined up?”

  “I have a few things on the boil.” I smiled at him, hoping my eyes didn’t give me away. It was true, I had looked online at the job openings a couple more times over the last few days but still hadn’t seen anything that had come close to rousing my interest. It all still seemed so ho-hum, so uninspiring, so bleh.

  “I can see it now: Auckland’s newest power couple. Only you’ll have to start wearing large shoulder pads and I’ll have to give up on the socks, maybe don a ten-gallon hat.”

  “You’ve watched Dallas?” I asked, incredulous. Dad used to watch it when he was young, and he subjected me to DVD box sets of the show when I was a teenager. Although it was too cheesy for words, with everyone sleeping together or plotting one another’s demise, it was thoroughly addictive, right down to the big hair, big hats, and oversized earrings.

  He laughed. “You too? We must have similarly minded parents or something. My mom is a bit older, thanks to me being the youngest of five kids, and she was addicted to it. She wore an ‘I shot J.R.’ badge years afte
r it was a thing.”

  “I would love one of those!”

  He smiled, playing with my fingers. “I’ll get you one.”

  As I gazed into his eyes, my chest tightened. This was going well, so well. Bailey and Marissa had done good.

  The waiter delivered our food, and we thanked him. Marcus had ordered for me, promising I would love the dishes he chose.

  “This smells amazing,” I declared as I took in the aroma from the large platter in front of me. Not realizing how ravenous I was until the aroma hit me, my tummy rumbled loudly.

  “Someone’s hungry.”

  My cheeks heated up. “Sorry.” I cleared my throat. Pointing at the platter, I asked, “What is that, some sort of pancake?”

  He chuckled. “That’s called an ‘injera.’ It’s made out of sourdough, I think. It’s really good.”

  “Okay.” I liked most food, and this looked and smelled delicious. I was game for anything. I searched for the silverware on the table. Finding none, I said, “I think they forgot our utensils.”

  “No, you eat with your hands. Well, your right hand, the other one’s used for . . . bathroom activities.”

  Getting his inference and not wanting to detract in any way from the romance of the date, I nodded, eying the mounds of different-colored mush on the oversized pancake, or “injera.”

  “Bon appétit,” I said.

  “Shouldn’t you say something in Ethiopian?” Marcus asked.

  “Umm, I don’t know any.”

  “Let’s ask the waiter.” Marcus called the waiter over and asked him for the correct expression.

  “The language of my country is Amharic. You could say ‘bemigibu tedeseti,’” he replied.

  We both tried the expression out, me a fraction more successful than Marcus, but we both failed miserably. We chuckled, grinning at one another. Swoon.

  “I don’t think either of us will be invited to the United Nations any time soon,” Marcus said quietly after the waiter had gone.

  “Well, I’m not sure they have much call for temporary waitresses there.”

  “No, you’re a marketer between jobs,” he corrected me.

  “So, do we just grab some?” I asked, eyeing the meal.

  “Watch.” Marcus tore a piece of the “injera” off, scooped some of the vegetable dish up in it, and placed it in his mouth. He grinned at me. “Delicious.”

  I smiled back and followed suit, ripping a piece off and collecting some vegetables up inside the fold. I took a bite. The pancake was warm and soft and the vegetables tasty and fresh. “Yum.”

  “This one is a goat ‘wat,’” he said, pointing at the meat stew. “Last time I was here the meat was so tender, it almost melted in my mouth. You should try it.”

  I nodded, an image of a dissolving goat leaping into my head. I scooped some of the goat “wat” up with another piece of the “injera.” I slipped it into my mouth. It was a flavor explosion with multiple herbs and spices. I smiled at him, nodding my appreciation.

  And then it began. It was a gentle heat at first, but then began to build and build with every chew. I could handle this. After all, I’d eaten a fair share of vindaloos in my time. Well, okay, I’d had one once and nearly died from the heat, but the point is I’d had one before. This? No biggie.

  I sat there, my mouth burning, my lips turning to rubber, as the heat crept into my cheeks and up my face. Even my nostrils felt like they were on fire as little beads of sweat began to form on my upper lip.

  “Are you all right?” Marcus asked, concerned, as my eyes began to water.

  “Mm-hm.” I nodded at him, hoping to look perfectly composed, despite the fact my cheeks were full of the fiery goat stew.

  I willed myself to finish chewing so I could swallow and get this agony over with. Though I knew simply swallowing wouldn’t end the pain, of course. Oh, no. This date had been going far too well for that.

  “Do you need something? You’ve gone a little . . . pink,” Marcus said.

  I nodded furiously as I willed myself to swallow that melting goat before it had the chance to melt me. Finally, I swallowed. But, it got caught. Oh, god!

  You know that moment when you know you’re about to choke? It’s almost like everything goes into slow motion until your breath runs out and you need to take a new one, but your windpipe is blocked, so you put off the inevitable? Well, with that piece of fiery goat in my throat, I knew I was about to turn purple and sound like a bad imitation of Darth Vadar in an asthma attack.

  Only, I didn’t think I could breathe at all. My eyes darted around the room. I needed to find the Ladies so I could cough my lungs up away from my date, and fast! I pushed back my chair and leapt up.

  “Are you all right?” Marcus’s eyes looked like they could pop out of their sockets.

  Too late, I knew there was no way I could make it to the Ladies. My lungs felt like they were going to explode. I needed to breathe! I gasped for air, clutching my throat, tears streaming down my face. Marcus was out of his chair, patting me forcefully on the back. My hands on my knees, I struggled to breathe as panic spread across my chest, tightening its grip on me.

  I’m going to die! I’m going to die on my Last First Date!

  Before I knew what was happening, I felt myself being lifted up by two strong arms, wrapped around my middle. The grip was strong, my toes barely touching the floor. Marcus. I could feel a body pressed against mine as the arms jolted up once, twice. I was being tossed around like a rag doll, still gasping for air. On the third jolt, something raced up my throat and out of my mouth. I could breathe! I took a deep breath, coughed, and coughed some more. But I knew it was nothing, I knew I could breathe, and whatever was lodged in there was now out, splattered somewhere across the restaurant.

  Relief flooded my weary body as I turned to thank him. Only, it wasn’t Marcus. It was our waiter, smiling at me, as though he performed the Heimlich maneuver on his customers every day. Perhaps he did. Who knew?

  I looked at him, openmouthed, my throat and chest still screaming at me, my breathing shallow as my heart smashed up against my ribs. What do you say to a man had saved your life? “Thank you,” I rasped, shocked at how terrible my voice sounded.

  He nodded and smiled, catching his breath. “You are very welcome,” he replied, in his lyrical accent. “We can’t have our patrons choking on our food.” He pulled a folded green handkerchief from his pocket and patted his brow.

  “No. I . . . You saved my life, and I don’t even know your name,” I managed, despite the constriction in my throat.

  “It’s Azmera. I am the owner of this restaurant.” He grinned at me, recovering from the sheer physical effort he had put in to saving my life.

  I took his hand in mine. “Thank you, Azmera. Without you . . .” I trailed off. Without Azmera, I’d have been in a body bag about now.

  “I’m certain your man friend here would have stepped in,” Azmera said, nodding at Marcus.

  My “man friend” took a step closer to me, putting his hand on my arm. “Yes, of course. I just froze, that’s all. I’m so glad you’re okay, Paige. That was pretty freaky. Thank you, Azmera.”

  “Well, I will leave you to it. Can I get you some more water, perhaps?”

  “Yes, water would be great, thanks,” Marcus said, leading me to my chair.

  I plunked down in it, my body slowly returning to normal, my throat still raw.

  “That was quite something. I think you managed to hit the back wall.” Marcus grinned at me as he sat down in his own chair. He took my hand in his. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I was recovered enough to feel the sting of humiliation. I’d choked, had someone perform the Heimlich maneuver on me, and projected a lump of spicy goat across the room, location unknown—all in front of Marcus.

  Cassie had famously punched herself in the face on her One Last First Date, almost breaking her nose. Was this a pact curse or something? Something we all had to go through, some sort of rite of passage? �
�Thou shalt make a total fool of thyself on thine’s One Last First Date.” I would laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

  I looked down at my food, my appetite gone. “I’m—” I began. What was I? I was torn, that’s what I was. I wanted to stay on this amazing date with the guy I knew unequivocally was my future husband, but at the same time, it felt like someone had lit a fire in my trachea and I wanted to just get home and curl up in bed.

  Azmera delivered some fresh water, and I drank my glass in three seconds flat, the liquid going some way to soothing my throat as it went down.

  “Do you know what?” I croaked. “I think I might like to go home.”

  He smiled at me. “Sure.”

  Marcus paid Azmera on our way out, tipping him generously, and I thanked him once again for, you know, that small favor of saving my life.

  Not relishing the thought of taking the bus home in my state, I was grateful when Marcus, gentleman that he was, offered to drive me. We walked the handful of blocks to his building where his car was parked in the basement, his arm slung protectively around my shoulders.

  Slipping onto the cool leather of his front seat, Marcus flashed me his brilliant smile. “Where do you live?”

  I gave him my Dad’s address, and he drove us up, out of the basement, and out onto the busy street.

  “I’m so sorry about this. I’ve had a really great time,” I croaked.

  “Other than the choking part?” Marcus said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. I had a great time, too.”

  Twenty minutes later, Marcus pulled up outside my Dad’s house. He switched the ignition off and turned to me. “Can I walk you to your door?”

  Was he serious? This guy was totally old school and I liked it, a lot. “Sure,” I rasped.

  At the front door, we stood awkwardly facing one another.

  “Do you want to do this again sometime?” he asked, a half grin plastered across his face.

  “Maybe if we skip the choking part next time?” I said with a grin.

  “Great plan.” He stepped closer so our bodies were almost touching. “I’d like that.”

  This is it! This was going to be our first kiss, our one last first kiss. The One Direction song of the same name jumped immediately to mind. I braced myself, my belly flip-flopping as he leaned into me. I puckered up, ready, waiting, and more than willing.