The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

When we sit down on the swing, Jake reaches over and pulls me closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I’ve learned that he’s an affectionate man, and I still can’t believe I get to know that about him. I also like his deodorant. I briefly wonder if I could get away with using some before I leave without him noticing. That’s creepy, right? Yeah, let’s forget I considered it.

Jake picks up his phone again and checks the screen. He’s had that thing glued to him all night, and if I didn’t know the real reason he was checking it so much, I’d be worried he was waiting for a booty call from another woman. But I don’t say anything about it because I know that he’s just worried about Sam.

It strikes me how different this first date is from all of the others I’ve been on. Not only have we already made out in the kitchen and discussed my menstrual cycle, but usually on a first date, I would maybe be holding his hand with about twelve inches still neatly placed between the sides of our thighs (make room for the Holy Spirit as Grandmama used to say). But as it is, Jake has me tucked in so close to his side that I’m pretty much sitting on his lap. (Sorry, Grandmama.)

I feel like a little bunny rabbit, so I nestle in a little closer to his stupidly defined side and sigh with contentment inside my burrow.

“Sam’s going to be just fine,” I say when I catch him checking his phone again.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“No. I’m lying. If you weren’t here to tether me to this porch swing, I’d probably already be in my truck, halfway to Jenna’s house to get her back.”

I reach across him and lace my fingers in his. His hands are calloused and warm. “Just say the word and I’ll handcuff you to this swing.”

He looks down at me with a big fat smirk. “Oh really? So now I know you're a butt girl AND a little kinky.”

I poke him hard in the side, and he laughs. “Not like that, you weirdo.”

How is it so easy with him? It’s not supposed to feel like this. We’re supposed to feel awkward and uncomfortable, and by now on a date, I’m usually texting Jo an “SOS” so she’ll call and say my house is on fire and I need to come put it out.

Instead, I’m rubbing my thumb across the back of Jake’s knuckles and wondering if he’d be scared if I asked to go ahead and move in? Truth is, I’m falling head over heels for this man, and it’s scaring me to death. He wants to go slow. And I want to punch the gas. I feel safe with Jake, and the sensation is entirely new for me.

But I’ve watched enough movies and dated enough jerks to know that something is probably waiting around the corner to jump out and bite me. Maybe I don’t have to take a turn at all, though. No corners. No dark hallways. And I definitely don’t have to walk through any creepy doors that would have the audience yelling, “Don’t go in there, you idiot!!”

I think Jake and I have this dating thing figured out. We’re being adults, communicating through our issues, and honestly, I’m really proud of us.

I sit up a little and pull my knees up on the swing to be more eye level with Jake. He holds me tight, though, saying with his body, “Uh-uh-uh. You’re not going anywhere, you sexy lady.” I added the “sexy lady” bit to boost my own confidence. Don’t judge.

“Let’s play a game to distract you from worrying about Sam,” I say, turning my torso to face him.

He smiles and picks up my legs and drapes them over his lap. So, WHOA. I guess he’s feeling comfortable on this first date, too. I can hear my grandmama trying to remind me of the Holy Spirit, but I remind her—as every dutiful Southern child would—that the good Lord lives in my heart.

“What sort of game?” His blue eyes are sparking, and my whole body flushes. I can see his mind working, and honestly, it’s not fair. These mixed signals are torture. We’re playing tug of war between fast and slow, but I can’t keep up with who’s tugging for which end. What happens if we both give up?

Chills race across my arms, and I dust them off with my hands.

“It’s called the honesty game.”

“So, truth or dare?” Would he quit talking like that? In that deep, sexy, husky tone that’s dripping with innuendos?

“Noooo,” I say, tugging on the slow side of the rope. “Just the truth game. It goes like this: one of us asks a question, and the other answers truthfully.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Yeah. So just basically talking, then? I don’t think you can call it a game if one of us isn’t daring the other to take off their clothes and jump in the pool if we don’t want to answer the question.”

I gasp and give him a big poke in the side again (because let’s face it, I like feeling his obliques). “You wouldn’t! I thought you were a gentleman.”

He chuckles and grips my legs as he squirms away from my tickling pokes. “I would soooo dare you to skinny dip.”

“I thought you were wanting to take this whole t

hing slow.”

“Want? No. Will? Yes.” Why am I let down by that? I want to smack myself with a ruler. Behave, Evie.

I’m supposed to be grateful for the good guys who want to respect me. I’m supposed to respect myself enough to make sure men do, too. Girl power. Feminism. And something else about milk and cows that I can’t remember anymore because Jake is now massaging my feet. Like WHAT? What man does this on a first date? How is he so good at knowing what a woman really wants? I think I’m half in love with him already.