I’ll act more empowered next time.
The Uber pulls up in front of Jake’s magazine-worthy farmhouse, and I’m still in disbelief that I get to even go inside this home, let alone date the man that owns it. (Don’t get all judgy right now. I’m not after Jake for his money or his belongings—I’m after his abs.)
Charlie and I get out of the Uber, and I tug on my high-waisted jeans to put them back in their correct placement of hugging my butt and trimming my waist. I paired them with a cute pale-pink blouse, and I won’t lie, I’m feeling pretty adorable right now. I even took the time to curl my hair in long, loose waves. I look like a walking ad for a beachy-waves hair product, and I wonder how I got so lucky to not wake up with a zit today.
Everything feels too good. I’m still waiting for that hammer to drop while also trying to be more optimistic like Jo suggested.
I ring the doorbell, and the feel of my heart thudding in my chest helps me count the seconds it takes for Jake to answer the door. Ten.
As he’s opening the door, my nervousness overcomes me, and I wonder if it’s too late to play ding-dong-ditch and hide in the bushes. Yeah, it’s too late. He?
?s seen me. And OH BOY, do I see him.
“Hi,” he says in a sultry voice with a smirk that says, Yeah, I know I look hot. He puts Garrett’s paltry little “hi” to shame. Jake is tall and muscular, and he’s wearing a form-fitting, slate-blue shirt and day-old stubble on his jaw. His jeans are dark and trim, and I’m sure that he has them tailored to fit him like a glove. I like this look on him. No, I love it.
“Hi yourself,” I say, and NOPE, sultry doesn’t sound good on me. I sound delusional and like I have a throat bubble.
I’m just considering jumping into the bushes again when Jake steps out to where I’m standing and captures me around the waist. He leans down and brushes my cheek with a kiss from his deliciously scratchy jaw and whispers in my ear, “You look beautiful.”
Well, okay then. I guess I’ll stay.
I smile against his cheek, and then he releases me to pat Charlie on the head and take my hand, pulling me inside. The smell of herbs and spices fills my senses, and the sound of Leon Bridges plays softly from the speakers in the ceiling. It doesn’t escape my notice that he’s turned on the very album I was listening to the night he came over.
The lights are dimmer than normal, and my body is hyperaware that Sam is not home, and this is officially Jake the Man’s house and not Jake the Dad. My nerves are humming, and buzzing, and ping-ponging with excitement, and suddenly, I don’t know what to do with my hands. They don’t make real pockets on women’s jeans, so I’m forced to clasp them behind me like a kindergartener who’s been told not to touch anything.
“Come on in; I’m just finishing up a few things.” He goes into the kitchen, and I follow a few paces behind him, afraid to say anything.
Someone please tell me what to do right now! I’ve stood in this kitchen dozens of times. I’ve spent the last few weeks talking to Jake every single day. But this feels different. The air is different. It’s rich with anticipation.
It’s been a long time since I’ve gone on a date. Even longer since I’ve been on a date with a man I liked. Or a man that looked and acted like Jake. No one should look that sexy holding a ladle and stirring a pot. He’s a safety hazard.
I decide to give in to my awkward and plaster myself in the farthest corner of his kitchen. The cold marble cuts through my shirt and stings at my lower back, but I don’t care. I’m not moving. “How was Sam when you dropped her off?” I manage to squeak out.
Jake taps the wooden spoon against the side of the pot and sets it down. He takes note of me standing alllll the way across the room and smirks. “Great. She looked so happy running in with all her friends. I’m glad I let her go.” He goes toward the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine. How did he know that was my favorite? “Want a glass?”
“Yes!” I say a little too eagerly.
He smiles and pours but stays put where he is. “Here you go.”
He’s smiling at me and holding the glass in front of him. I know what he’s doing. He’s bribing me away from my private island, and I have no choice but to comply if I want that wine. And I do want it.
I slowly move closer, and he chuckles. “Why are you so afraid of me tonight?”
“I’m not,” I croak. But I am. I totally am.
My nerves are sizzling because I don’t know what to expect from the night, or what he expects. We are two adults on a first real date, and let’s face it, there’s been a lot of tension building up between us lately, and I just don’t know what he’s thinking is going to happen tonight. What do I want to happen? What will I let happen?
When I come within arm’s reach, he slips his hand around to my lower back and pulls me closer. Ha ha, you fell for it, and now you’re trapped. I like being trapped. He smells incredible—like he used a body wash with descriptive words on the bottle, like mountain or rain. Somehow, the smell acts like a truth serum, because when he asks me to tell him what’s going on in my head, I do.
“I’m nervous,” I say, looking up and meeting his tender blue eyes.
He smiles, and a small chuckle runs through his chest. “Me too.”
“Really?” Somehow, that surprises me because he seems so put together and sure of himself. He always seems that way. Like a sturdy tree that’s been there for hundreds of years. You know that if a strong wind blows, it won’t knock it over.
“I changed my outfit three times,” he admits with a cute, guilty look.
I grin and relax a little more into him. “You didn’t.”