Page 11 of The Dating Proposal
Cup of joe! That’s almost like a date!
I mean, it’s not a date.
Obviously.
But it’s training-wheels time. Talking to this guy as he fixes my hard drive might help me prep for when I go out with Steven from Madcap, the Lemonhead Guy, Nathaniel from Julia’s bar, and the other men I hope will come knocking on my door—not literally—once my dating prowess improves.
“Sure,” I say, with probably way more enthusiasm than the prospect of a repair job and coffee deserves.
There’s a big bonus to this cuppa. I’ll get to look at his handsome face while he fixes it. I mean, I’ll look at his hands, because the sight of a man using a tool is super hot.
“By the way, I’m Chris McCormick.”
“McKenna Bell.”
He extends a hand.
We make contact, and there’s something about the feel of his strong hand in mine that kind of turns me on. Maybe it’s the firm grip, or the way his eyes light up as he smiles. I want to tug him closer and plant a hot, wet kiss on his lips.
Nothing will happen though. He didn’t ask me on a date, and I didn’t ask him either.
But it can’t hurt that I’m thinking slightly naughty thoughts. It’s evidence I’m getting my groove back.
Hello, groove. Nice to see you. I’ve missed you bunches.
6
Chris
I’m not checking out her body.
I’m not staring at her face. I’m focused on the task at hand. Thank God I have one, because otherwise, I’d be staring at those eyes. They’re blue with gold flecks, making them look almost hazel at times. She has all sorts of colors working in her irises, and the net effect is totally captivating.
So is her lush mouth.
She’s running it while I carefully screw the case back together. It’s painstaking work since it’s tiny and the screwdrivers are the size of nails.
“I tried to fix my shower once,” McKenna says, wrapping her slender hands around a cup of coffee. Yes, even her hands are hot. Lord help me.
“Yeah?” I glance at her hands then back at the hard drive. “How’d it go?”
“Well, if you consider scars a good thing, it went well.”
I look up. “Scars can be cool. I trust it went exceedingly well?”
She lifts her chin and shows me a thin white scar on the right side of her jaw. “Then I did a fabulous job ‘fixing’ the shower.” She sketches air quotes.
“Looks like it to me. But how exactly did the shower hit you in the face?”
“When the door fell.” She says it so matter-of-factly.
I blink, trying to process the enormity of everything that could have gone wrong. “I don’t know if I should be impressed you tried to fix a shower door without any fix-it skills, or impressed with your good luck in surviving the incident. Because those things are heavy.”
“Hey! How do you know I don’t have any fix-it skills?”
I grin. “Lucky guess?”
“Fine. You’re right. But what else was I to do?” She shrugs, her tone light and breezy. “It wouldn’t close all the way. And that was getting me down because I like to take really hot showers. We’re talking sauna temperature. You know the type? Imagine you walk into the bathroom, and steam is everywhere, and you can barely even see the other person in the shower. Just a silhouette. Can you picture that?”
Can I picture it? Hell, I can feel that. In my pants. “Yep,” I answer, and it comes out a little dry, a little gravelly. Because painting crazy-hot images is playing below the belt, and I bet she doesn’t even realize it. Hot women shouldn’t use the word “shower” in casual conversation. It’s wholly unnecessary, along with “yoga pants” and “strawberries.”
“So you tried to fix it?” I ask, forcing myself to focus on the project in front of me, rather than on images of steam rising, which lead to other things rising.
“Yup. And then that shower door showed me who was boss.” She holds up her forearm vertically then lets it fall as she makes a kaboom sound.
I can’t help but laugh. “And whacked you on its way down?”
“Completely whacked. It’s kind of a miracle I’m alive, come to think of it.”
“I’m glad you survived the shower whacking. What happened with the door though?”
“I called my friend Andy. He fixed it for me. It works like a steamy, dreamy charm now.” She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling happily.
I stop and take a drink of espresso.
“Andy? So he’s Handy Andy?” I kind of hate him already. Wait. That’s dumb. I don’t feel a thing for Handy Andy who was in McKenna’s shower, that lucky bastard.
“That’s a good one. Can you rhyme my name?”
“Henna McKenna?” I toss out.
“And you’ll be Chris who brings me bliss by fixing the hard drive,” she says, and I just smile at her.
“You’re a bundle of energy,” I say as I return to my project, moving to the right side of the case.
