Maybe I’d gotten ahead of myself, because his face grew dark. The storm brewing within him when we’d met returned to his eyes. Even from the outside, the destruction being caused by that hurricane was catastrophic. But still, he stared at me. His gaze searched my face as if I held the answers to every question he’d never spoken. It made me a terrible person, but my stomach dipped at the thought that I had even one answer for him.
Never breaking his intense attention from me, he brought our joined hands to his lips and peppered kisses over the back. “You have no idea how right you are about that.”
On his next exhale, the clouds in his eyes faded. “Right, so… A boat of sushi. Hope you brought your appetite.”
I grinned across the table at him, thankful the bleak moment had passed. “Dibs on the sashimi.”
Like the morning sun coming over the horizon, his face lit again, and just like that, Bowen came back to me.
“You better be quick with the chopsticks then, Ms. Grey.”
The rest of dinner was easy and breezy, the way a first date should be. We ate a lot. Laughed even more. Teased each other relentlessly. It was by far the best date of my life, and the best part was it wasn’t even over yet.
When we finally finished all we could and he paid the check, I rode with Bowen to Atlanta’s Botanical Garden, where we spent the rest of the afternoon strolling hand in hand through a horticultural heaven. He knew almost nothing about plants, and I was almost positive he didn’t care, either. But I never would have known based on the smile on his face as he listened to me prattle on for hours.
I didn’t want the night to end. Though the moan-inducing goodbye kiss as he dropped me off at my car softened the blow. He made me promise to text him as soon as I was home, but when I pulled into my driveway, there were already a half dozen notifications on my screen.
Bowen: So, I know tomorrow is Sunday and all, but would you want to come over and watch the baseball game with a nerd??
Bowen: The Braves are away, but I could fire up the grill.
Bowen: Or we could order in again and skip the game completely.
Bowen: Movie maybe? Here or a theater?
Bowen: Yeah, we could definitely go out again if you’re more comfortable with that than coming to my place.
Bowen: And please…when you get home and read these, can we not discuss how I just sent you four thousand consecutive texts to ask you out on another date?
I giggled as I started typing.
Me: First of all, I love baseball. But are you grilling burgers or brats?
Bowen: After I saw the way you devoured sushi tonight, we’re probably gonna need both.
I laughed again, my cheeks strained from a day full of it.
Me: Then yes. I would love to come over and watch the game tomorrow night. Sadly, there is no way I can ignore, nor forget, your text-a-thon. I think you like me, Mr. Michaels.
Bowen: All calculations on my end seem to add up that way. I’ve been going over the stats since I watched you drive off. Which, for the record, was my least favorite part of the evening.
Me: Well, statistically speaking, I can assure you the rest of the date put all your numbers in the red.
Bowen: What? Red isn’t good.
Me: Oh, well, I guess I’ll leave the mathing to you. Regardless, please report back to the nerds that our feelings are mutual. Also…I just got home.
Bowen: Excellent news on both fronts.
Me: Thanks again for an amazing day. Sweet dreams.
Bowen: I’m not sure how sweet they’ll be, but they will all be of you.
Heat rushed through my body, nipples to clit.
Oh. My. Gawd.
This man. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Nice Ass. The Man of Mystery. He was becoming Mr. Sweep Me Off My Feet.
Bowen
“Are you avoiding me?” my pain-in-the-ass sister asked across the line.
After wedging my phone between my ear and my shoulder, I pulled my sheets out of the dryer, answering, “Let me get this straight. You have been riding my ass for the better part of the last six months to get a life and today I call you to tell you I’m having a friend over for dinner and your conclusion is that I’m avoiding you?”
She scoffed. “Fine. Then tell me about this alleged friend. Are they imaginary? Go by the name Clyde or Sugar? Or is this more of a Calvin and Hobbs situation?”
I walked to my bedroom, dropped the sheets onto the chair in the corner, and then got busy with the stretch-and-smooth routine to make up the bed. “First, you’re an ass. Second, it’s actually a client.” No lies detected.
“A client you’d like to keep? Because—no offense—Bowen, I’ve had your cooking.”
