Page 10 of How to Get Lucky
“Nate as in Nate and Eli?”
Her grin grows wider. “Yes. Good memory.”
I give myself a virtual pat on the back.
“He insisted on sharing the pint and listening to why I was in a funk. I did both, and he said something wise and pithy like ‘You’re an asshole if you don’t take chances.’”
I laugh. “Yes, that is wise and pithy. Also, true.”
She shrugs happily. “I took a chance. Gave it a try. And it was life,” she says, drawing out the last word, clearly enjoying the memory.
“I love basically everything about that story, except for one tiny detail.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger to show a sliver of space.
“What’s that?”
“The food choice. I prefer to do my deep thinking with a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
She gives a playfully stern shake of her head. “I have to disagree. Nothing beats B & Js.”
I can’t help myself. “That’s true. Everyone loves good BJs. I know I do.”
A laugh bursts from her as she quirks one eyebrow—that damn sexy one again. Though, in all fairness, both are sexy. All of her is sexy. “Do you now? How much do you love them?”
I can’t answer right away, because I’m pretty much on fire from those words on her pretty lips. “More than I love Prince’s ‘Purple Rain.’”
“The song or the movie?”
“Both.”
“High praise.” It comes out flirty, borderline dirty.
It takes everything in my power not to jump across this table and cover her mouth with mine. This woman is hot. And clever. And easy to talk to. Plus, she gives such good flirt.
I take a sip of my Asahi to cool down and return to her story so she doesn’t think I’m a sex-crazed maniac with a one-track mind. “So, you put your ego aside, took your friend’s advice, and it worked out,” I prompt.
“Everything clicked—all of a sudden, my work had no physical limits. With choreography, the only ceiling is my imagination.” She picks up another edamame, pops it from the pod, then into her mouth, and when she finishes chewing, says, “But enough about me. I want to hear about you. I truly enjoyed your ‘emceeing’ last night,” she says, sketching air quotes. “But especially your song picks. They were spot on. Then I learned you weren’t a fourth-grade DJ prodigy, and I was shocked.”
“Yes, it remains shocking to me as well.” I shift to a more earnest tone. “But honestly, I’ve had a similar experience with deejaying. I could never master an instrument the way I wanted, but I was cool with that because I love putting music together even more. Devouring it, experiencing it, sharing it. All genres, all eras, which is why I love doing any kind of event—corporate, weddings, what have you. I’ve done a few, but nothing serious. It’s what I want to do under my own banner, with my own business. It’s what I do, too, with a weekly radio show I have. Playing other people’s music, at the right time, in the right order, can be its own form of expression.” I laugh lightly. “That probably sounds corny, right?”
Or maybe not. Because the way she’s locked onto me while I’m talking makes me feel like I’m the only guy in the room—hell, the only guy in the world.
And this date is nothing like the ones I went on with Tracy. London is nothing like my ex. Maybe, just maybe, my luck is changing. Hell, what are the chances the first woman I’ve asked out since my ex skewered me would be so fucking dope?
I could never have imagined my Sunday night going this well. But hey, synchronicity. It’s my turn. I’m going to enjoy this great date, and maybe soon it’ll lead to all that great sex.
She jumps in, answering my question. “It does not sound corny. It sounds awesome. You know what else sounds awesome?”
I lean in, eager to hear. “What’s that?”
“That yellowtail you were hyping earlier. And it looks like it is heading this way.” Her eyes drift past my shoulder, and I follow her gaze to the sashimi, sushi, and rolls on a porcelain boat that a server carries toward us. He sets the tray down, we thank him, then London and I both go straight for the wasabi to add to our soy sauce. Nice to see I’m not the only one here who likes it hot.
“You like sushi with your wasabi, I see,” I say dryly as she drowns the fish and rice in the good green stuff.
“I like it hot, and I’m not afraid to admit it,” she says, then leans to the right, rooting around in her little purple purse, fishing for something. She dangles her keys, and I grin like a fool.
“I have one too,” I say, grabbing my key ring to show her the mini bottle of sriracha on it.
