Unwrapping Holly

You made this date before Brody even asked you out, the little voice in my head reminded me. And you can go out on two dates in a weekend, Holly. You are single after all.

Damn, that was true also. I couldn’t really argue. Even so…

Oh, stop over-analyzing everything. Just go out and have fun.

I thought about it as I gathered my things. It was date, that’s all. A date I already had.

Maybe the thing with Donovan is nothing. Or maybe it’s just another great date. Shit, we both know you could use the practice. Enjoy it.

I laughed at the fact that I was arguing with myself. And I couldn’t believe I had to talk myself into going out with someone as amazingly hot as Donovan.

Grabbing my phone, I hammered out a quick response. I gave Donovan my address, and told him I looked forward to seeing him tonight.

There you go.

I hurried on my way to the bank of elevators, taking long strides through the empty halls. For some reason the butterflies were all back in my stomach.

Yeah, I thought to myself. There I go.

Nine

HOLLY

“A cooking class?”

Donovan smiled as he slipped his hand into mine. It was big and warm. His palms were calloused, from hour after hour of daily weightlifting.

God he looked good. Casual but cool, in dark jeans that accentuated his amazing bubble-shaped ass and a button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm.

“I— I thought you said dinner?” I asked again.

“We’re eating dinner,” he smiled. “We’ve just gotta cook it first.”

He examined me, and his smile faded amidst my confusion.

“Did you not want to do this” he asked genuinely. “Because we could just as easily—”

“No, no,” I smiled back. “It’s not like that at all! I just, well, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I’ve never been to a cooking class.”

He smiled as he led me into the room. A dozen or so other couples were standing together at various cooking stations. Colorful bowls of ingredients lines the counter-tops in the well-lit cooking area.

“What are we making?” I asked, suddenly excited.

“Cajun, I think,” he replied. “The class sounded good when I signed us up: ‘Date Night in the French Quarter’.”

Spicy food, I thought to myself. That might be good, actually. But I couldn’t let him know that.

“So you basically invited me out to cook dinner for you,” I teased. “Is that it?”

“Yup.”

“Well… shit.”

“Hey,” Donovan protested. He put up his hands. “I’m cooking for you too. So it’s not all bad news.”

The instructor walked in — a middle-aged woman with short blonde hair — and things quickly started up. She went over the cooking process, the ingredients, and how we’d prepare the meal and eat it in stages. The whole thing seemed like it could be a lot of fun, if not for the fact I was utterly starving.

Either way, I was determined to make the best of it. We started off with the first course: a chicken and andouille sausage gumbo. The blend of meats and spices simmered for a tantalizingly long time before we could actually taste it, at which point I nearly took off Donovan’s hand at the fingers.