Damn, I definitely want to know what he’d like from me.
The man with the soulful brown eyes lets go of the lunch box I spotted first and takes the other one.
“Thank you,” he tells the shopkeeper, and I follow suit, thanking her too.
“I’m just so delighted this all worked out,” she says, and scurries to the counter. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
The man in the suit returns his gaze to me, briefly licking his lips. “Guess we don’t have to negotiate anymore,” he says, like this new turn of events is such a shame.
It does feel like a damn shame because there is eye contact and then there is skin-tingling, stomach-flipping, lust-at-first-sight eye contact. And this proves the hell out of my home page article. Eye contact is insanely powerful. But let’s not forget the unexpected finger contact either—unexpected because I’m pretty sure that kitschy gift shops selling vintage tchotchkes aren’t usually where you meet men who set your skin on fire.
Maybe he could set my skin on fire in other ways.
Maybe that’d make me happy too.
Maybe that’s what I need. After all, it’s been a while.
Go for it.
“Too bad we’ll never know if we could have struck a deal,” I say with a shrug too, teeing him up, waiting for him to remember the other thing he was saying. There’s something I’d like. Because I have a feeling what he’d like is my number. And I’d like to give it to him. To write it on his arm in lipstick.
Only, I want him to ask for it. I want him to want it. And to want me.
“I was looking forward to the negotiations,” he says, a lopsided grin playing on his lips.
“Were you thinking it’d be a knock-down, drag-out battle, or an everyone-walks-away-happy kind of negotiation?” I ask, drawing out the conversation, keeping him talking, because . . . Ask me for my number, you hot suit man.
His grin is flirty, but there’s a tiny bit of tentativeness in it. “Everyone walks away happy,” he says, keeping his eyes on me the whole time. “And grabs a drink to celebrate.”
I smile. I don’t bother to hide it. Now we’re clicking. Now the nerves I had are dissipating.
“I vote for mojitos.” There. That ought to make it easy for him.
“Mojitos are on me,” he says, then his eyes take a nice, long stroll down my body, and I bet the hey, can I have your number request is coming in just three seconds.
I can’t be wrong about the chemical reaction between the two of us. I haven’t felt a zing like this in ages. Haven’t wanted to. The last time I felt a wild kind of chemistry, my heart was crushed, julienned, and diced.
But that was years ago.
I’ve boxed it up, packed it on ice, and moved on. And since I have moved on, maybe it’s time to take a chance.
Happiness, right?
You’ve got to seize it like a lunch box.
Decide on it like it’s a story you’re going to run on the home page.
I’m no damsel in distress. I can ask him for his number, and I start to do that. “So, would you—”
Ring.
He grabs his phone from his pocket at the speed of light, swipes the screen, and steps away. “What’s going on?”
My shoulders sag.
The moment shatters.
He walks to the corner of the store.
That’s the end of the negotiation.
With a dose of frustration coursing through me, I walk to the counter, plunk down some cash, then head to the door, lunch box in hand. As I leave, the man in the suit raises a hand, one finger, maybe making a wait for me sign. But maybe not. I’m not sure. And I don’t want to be wrong. I don’t need to research an article on how humiliating it would be to think someone is about to ask you out and wait around to exchange phone numbers, only to get a blank look, or worse, an “Oh, are you still here?”
My glance at the clock decides for me. I have just enough time to get to my meeting, and I am never late. So, I point at the lunch box, tell him, “Enjoy,” and then I zip out of there.
Besides, you don’t meet sexy, stable, smart guys in stores over Snoopy lunch boxes.
We ran a piece recently on avoiding weirdos, and while we didn’t warn against men who buy cutesy gifts—because that would be judgy—I can draw my own conclusions.
Best to avoid a guy who’d fight a woman for a cartoon dog on a lunch box.
At least, that’s how I try to blunt the brick of disappointment lodged in my chest as I head to the office.
2
Logan
At an uber-trendy sandwich and bowl shop with my friends an hour later, I practically need to duck to avoid the rotten tomatoes and eggs they lob at me.
