Three Last First Dates Page 4

  Before I had the chance to back out, I said, “I want to sing.” I waited for his response, wondering why I was opening up to this guy so early on in the date—but liking it at the same time.

  “Sing, huh? As in join a choir type of singing or go on The Voice?” he asked.

  “Neither. Just . . . sing.”

  “That sounds straightforward enough to me. In the shower, maybe?”

  “Are you going back to that whole ‘naked’ thing, again?” I joked, although this time it was fun, a little risqué, as the French would have it.

  Nash threw the ball for Dexter—would this game ever get old for that dog?—and looked off into the distance. “Hmm, let me think. Marissa singing in the shower.”

  Again, I whacked him playfully on the arm. “Enough, already!”

  “Sorry, but you are super hot and I am just a man.”

  I shook my head, laughing. This is going so well! Nash was cute and fun and flirty, and all the things I had hoped in a Last First Date.

  Other than the dog slobber, that was.

  “What’s stopping you?” he asked, punctuating my thoughts.

  “Singing in the shower? I already do that!”

  “No,” he said with a chuckle, “what’s stopping you pursuing singing, like say, for an audience?”

  Me, was the simple answer. I hadn’t always been the slim, confident woman I was today. No way, José. Not too many years ago, guys like Nash and Coleman and Blaze wouldn’t have given me a second glance. I was shy, totally lacking in confidence, and I was a little on the plump side of the equation. Heck, who was I kidding? I was F. A. T. fat. And I hated it. Some women embraced their size, loving their curves. Like Bailey. She was curvy and looked like some sort of Italian screen goddess from the fifties. Not me. I had been a major comfort eater, and every time I looked in the mirror, I wanted to slap my chubby face. Hard.

  Then, once I’d graduated high school and was studying at college, I decided it was time I changed—no one was going to do it for me. I didn’t want to spend my life hating what I saw. So, I got into running and I cleaned up my diet. There was no overnight, miraculous change, no “big reveal.” It was gradual, my mindset about myself changing slowly as my body became stronger, healthier. I began to like what I saw when I looked in the mirror.

  But, to this day, I still knew, deep inside of me, that shy, overweight, unhappy girl lay dormant, ready to rear her head.

  Rather than delving into my most private of thoughts about myself, in response to Nash’s question about what was stopping me, I simply shrugged and said, “I don’t know.”

  “Then there’s nothing standing in your way, right?”

  Ah, if only it were that easy.

  “I guess. So,” I began, changing the subject quick-smart, “shall I give the throw-y thingamajig another try?”

  “Sure. It’s called a ‘ball thrower,’” he said, his fingers in quotation marks, “on account of the fact it throws a ball.”

  I shook my head. “Very funny.”

  Dexter dropped the slimy, utterly gross, discolored ball at Nash’s feet once more. I leaned in front of him and scooped it up with the ball thrower, Dexter’s attention immediately focusing on me. This time, when I threw the ball, I held onto the pink stick and watched as the ball flew through the air, Dexter scrambling at a rate of knots across the park in hot pursuit.

  “Nice,” Nash said, watching the ball. “That one might make it to the sea.”

  “Well then, let’s hope your dog can swim.”

  Nash chuckled. “Do you want to have some lunch? We can head to my local. They know Dex there.”

  After the brunch I’d had earlier in the day with Coleman the flirty mortician—wow, that was today?—I hadn’t thought I would be hungry for hours. But my tummy rumbled at the mention of lunch, and I had really enjoyed the date with Nash so far, so I nodded with a smile. “That sounds wonderful.”

  Nash called Dexter, and we ambled through the park and onto the sidewalk. “I’m parked over there,” I said, pointing at my car. “Where should we meet?”

  “You can park at my place, and we can walk from there.” He gave me his address, and I realized he lived only a few blocks from my apartment building.

  A short drive later, I parked behind Nash’s pickup truck in his driveway. I couldn’t help but check his house out: a cute restored cottage, painted dark blue with white trim and a gabled roof. The guy had style.

  I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror and quickly freshened up my lipstick before jumping out of the car and greeting Dexter once more. He acted like I was his long-lost friend, returned from the dead.

  Nash chuckled. “You have a new fan.”

  I patted Dexter as he leaned against my legs, marveling at how comfortable I felt with this large, slobbery dog—and his owner. “I guess I do.”

  Nash clipped a lead on Dexter’s collar, and we walked together down the street toward his “local,” Dexter trotting calmly at Nash’s side.

  “Have you lived in this neighborhood long?” I asked as we passed familiar stores and cafés.

  “I bought a house and renovated it. So, yeah, a while. I really like it here, although it’d be great to have more space for the dogs.”

  From my research prior to our date, I knew Nash was thirty-two: a very marriageable age, which, of course, was one of my considerations when I was choosing whom to date. I knew he had lived here for years, and I was surprised I hadn’t seen him on the weekends.

  “Here we are,” Nash said as we drew to a stop outside Ready to Eat, a café I had eaten at only a month or so ago. It had large windows, overlooking the street, with an oversized blackboard where a talented member of staff had drawn a picture of some fantastical beasts and mermaids, all in colorful chalk.

  “Oh, I love this place! Good choice.”

  We walked past the tables on the street and through the open door. Nash was instantly greeted with an enthusiastic “hello” from a hipster guy with a bushy beard behind the counter.

  “How are you doing, Bojan?” Nash asked him as the men shook hands over the top of the counter.

  “Great, man. You?”

  “Awesome, as always. Hey,” he said, turning to me, “this is Marissa.”

  Bojan extended his hand and I shook it. “Nice to meet you, Bojan.”

  “Likewise,” he said with a grin. He let go of my hand and said, “Hey, Dexter! How you doing, boy?”

  Dexter’s tail immediately started banging against my leg.

  “You here for lunch?” Bojan asked us.

  “We are indeed.”

  “Cool. Grab some menus and I’ll come take your order. Your usual table is reserved.”

  His usual table? Nash clearly thought the first part of our date would go well enough for us to make it this far. I smiled to myself. I admired his confidence.

  We walked through the café and out the back door to an area I never knew existed, although I had been here a handful of times. It was a tiny courtyard with only a few tables, all wrought iron with chairs with comfortable cushions. There was a pergola with ivy climbing up its sides and overhead, dappling the light beautifully.

  “This place is gorgeous!” I exclaimed.

  “I thought you’d been here before.”

  “Never to this part.”

  “You’ve been missing out, then. Here.” He gestured to a small table for two with a “reserved” sign in its center, and we sat down, Dexter arranging himself at Nash’s feet.

  A moment later, Bushy Bearded Bojan appeared at our table, menus and glasses of water in his hands, which he proceeded to place on the table. “We’ve got that halloumi, rocket, and fig stack with sourdough bread again, Nash.”

  Nash looked at me, his eyes bright. “You’ve got to try that.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. A halloumi, rocket, and fig stack sounded a little feminine for a guy who looked like he worked out, but then, maybe I wasn’t giving him credit for being a foodie. “That sounds great.�
� I looked up at Bojan, marveling at his beard. I mean, it was nicer than some women’s hair. “I’ll have the halloumi stack and a skinny latte, thanks.” I handed him my menu.

  “Me too,” Nash said, following suit. “Oh, with a side of steak.” He winked at me, and I shook my head.

  And there it was.

  Beginning to feel very relaxed and comfortable with him, we chatted about ourselves, enjoying the warm outside air and the quaint surrounds. And we got on really, really well. Unlike the first date of the day—which still made me shudder whenever it crept into my mind—I was finding it hard to latch onto anything bad about Nash at all.

  Which was extremely surprising for someone with a degree in fussiness.

  By the time we had finished our lunch, I was almost completely convinced Nash would be the winner of the day. Although I had one more date to go on, I simply couldn’t imagine enjoying anyone’s company as much as I had Nash’s.

  “Hey, this was fun,” he said as we left the café and walked slowly back toward my car. He slipped his free hand in mine, and I looked up into his eyes and smiled. It felt good; it felt right. We ambled the couple of blocks to his house, stopping beside my car.

  “Thank you for a really nice day,” I said, suddenly awkward.

  Now would be the perfect moment for us to have our first kiss—perhaps my last ever first kiss—and the magnitude of the moment had a couple of hamsters scuttling around in my belly.

  “I had a great time,” Nash said, taking a step closer to me so we were almost touching. He ran his hands down my arms, and I knew this was it, our first kiss. My heart rate kicked up a notch—or ten.

  Our attention was diverted by Dexter letting out a long whine. Nash laughed, breaking the spell. “He’s jealous!” he said, crouching down to pat Dexter, who lapped up the attention.

  I wondered if Dexter was having a canine fantasy of dispensing of me so he could have Nash all to himself.

  “You’re a good boy, Dex,” Nash said to him, still crouching down next to his dog and holding his face in his hands. “You’re still my number one.”

  And then, I watched in horror as Dexter’s long tongue darted out of his mouth, planting a wet, slobbery lick, right across Nash’s face. It was like everything had gone into slow motion, but there was nothing I could do to stop it.

  The moment Nash straightened up and pulled me into him once more, I stiffened. Was Dexter’s slobber on Nash’s lips? Perhaps even in his mouth?

  And I could tell you one thing, dog slobber was not sexy.

  As Nash leaned back in to kiss me, I held my breath, pressing my lips together, bracing for the transferal of dog slobber from one human to another. I had to work hard to resist the urge to gag.

  His lips brushed my clenched upper lip in possibly the least sexy kiss of all time.

  He pulled away from me, a confused look on his face, a face, in that moment, I could not believe I thought once looked like Jon Snow.

  “What was that?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Nothing. You’re great. And your dog? He’s great. You’re both great.” Nash was watching me with clear confusion. “I . . . I just have to go. Sorry. I didn’t realize what the time was, and I have a thing I need to get to.”

  I couldn’t look at him, instead I focused my attention on locating my keys in my purse, an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu washing over me. I hit the “open” button and fumbled behind myself for the door handle.

  Nash took a step back, watching me closely through narrowed eyes. “You have to go?”

  Locating the handle and yanking open the door awkwardly behind me, I said, “Yes, sorry. I’ll . . . I’ll call you.”

  Although, I knew I had no intention of doing that anymore.

  I turned and opened the door fully, climbed into the car, and slammed the door shut. I resisted the strong urge to hit the “lock” button, instead starting the car up and throwing it into gear. I gave him a tight smile and waved like I was a child waving at a clown on a float, and began to back out of the driveway.

  As I turned onto the street, I looked back at Nash standing next to a seated Dexter with his arms crossed, his brows knitted together in confusion. I waved once more and put my foot down, leaving Nash, Dexter, and their combined saliva behind.

  Chapter 4

  Three Last First Dates - Blaze

  I wasn’t in the most positive state of mind to go on my third Last First Date, but my desire to meet The One outweighed my malaise. I turned up at the bar, as prepared as I could be to meet Blaze McLaren for my third and final date of the day.

  After bidding Nash my hasty farewell, I had gone back to my apartment and managed to dodge Ryan’s bitter comments about doomed love and the hopelessness of it all once more—he really needed to get over his ex—and closeted myself away in my bedroom. I admit, I had spent a good few minutes scrubbing my lips clean, not that my lips made any actual contact with Nash’s. I made sure of that.

  I mean, Dexter was a nice enough dog, but his slobber had no business anywhere near my mouth.

  In my bedroom, I had pushed the date from my mind as I consulted my Pinterest board on my evening date ensemble. And now I stood outside the entrance to O’Dowd’s Bar and Grill, dressed in my Kate Bosworth-inspired pencil skirt and sleeveless scoop-necked top, my feet complaining already that they were crammed into the killer heels I’d borrowed from Cassie to complete the ensemble. Although I felt a little overdressed for the rowdy bar, I had reasoned I had to throw everything at this third and final date.

  Whether Blaze knew it or not, like the Star Wars movie, he was my New Hope.

  My only hope, now.

  I glanced at a blackboard, reading the words, “Tried everything else? Forget the internet. Why not give speed dating a shot? This Friday at seven.” I let out a puff of air. At least I wasn’t about to go on multiple blind dates tonight. Blaze seemed like a nice guy, he was better looking than any one person had any right to be, and after today’s disasters, I was looking forward to a nice, sane, easy date.

  As I pushed the doors open, I was immediately hit by the music, the chatter, and the laughter in the room. O’Dowd’s was as unpretentious as a bar could be, with its old barrels for tables, red carpet—not in anything even vaguely resembling a Hollywood way—and oversized wooden shelves behind the bar, littered with every drink known to humanity. I knew and loved O’Dowd’s, having spent many an evening here with the AGD sales team, celebrating a win or bidding a team member farewell. It was outside this bar I had caught Will and Cassie having their first ever kiss. This is the place they realized their love for one another.

  As I scanned the room, looking for Blaze, I hoped it could be a good omen for us tonight.

  I turned when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, coming face-to-face with a grinning Blaze.

  “Hi there,” he said in his deep, gravelly voice.

  My heart skipped a beat as I took in his broad shoulders, his tanned skin, the way his white T-shirt strained over his muscular chest and arms. Definitely Fool’s Gold Matthew McConaughey.

  Not bad, not bad at all.

  “Hi,” I murmured, returning his grin, a swarm of bees buzzing in my belly.

  He let out a whistle as he held me at arms’ length, looking me over. “You look hot!”

  Although he was looking at me as though I were food, I kind of liked the fact his comment lacked any form of subtlety. It was honest and straightforward. “Thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  He gave a self-deprecating shrug, only adding to his attractiveness. “I’ve got a spot over there,” he said, gesturing to a green velvet-lined booth near the bar. We walked through the busy bar, and I slid into the booth, smiling up at him.

  “Can I get you a drink?” he asked, standing beside me.

  “A glass of sauvignon blanc, please.”

  “Coming right up,” he said with a wink. It was cute on him—not cheesy.

  I watched as he turned and walked back over to the bar, wait
ing in line to be served. He was wearing a pair of jeans that showcased his strong, muscular body, and I had to swallow at the sight of him.

  My cheeks heated up. “Brawny” was so the right word for this guy.

  He turned and caught me gazing longingly at him, flashing me his pearly whites, bright against his tan skin. Embarrassed, I gave him a small wave, turning my attention to a group of women on a hen’s party. All the women laughing, looking like they were having the time of their lives, the bride-to-be wearing a crooked veil.

  Maybe one day that would be me?

  “Here you are, m’lady,” Blaze said as he placed our drinks on the table and took his seat.

  “Thanks . . . err, sir?” I offered, feeling a little idiotic. Who called a woman “m’lady” in this day and age?

  Blaze, clearly.

  “Cheers,” I said, lifting my glass of wine.

  “Cheers,” he replied, lifting a pint glass of . . . was that milk?

  We clinked glasses, and I took a sip. “What cocktail is that?” I asked, having never seen a pint-sized cocktail before. I wondered if Blaze was a big drinker. Didn’t cocktails usually come in glasses a quarter the size?

  He laughed. “I get that a bit. It’s the best cocktail you can feed your body.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “A milky gin and tonic?” I joked.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Guess again.”

  “Err . . . a Malibu and coconut milk something-or-other?” I hazarded, naming the only milky liquor I could think of.

  “Shall I tell you?” His eyes were dancing. I nodded my ascent. “It’s milk.”

  He was drinking milk? In a bar? What was he, five years old?

  “So, it’s not a cocktail at all.”

  “It’s a cocktail of health-giving protein and good fats. It’s got three eggs whipped in, too. Here, try it.” He thrust the pint glass at me.

  “Oh . . . err, thanks.” I searched my brain for a way in which I could avoid having to drink even one small sip of Blaze’s egg and milk concoction. I liked my eggs fried and my milk in my coffee, thank you very much.

  I was a grown woman, after all.