Only One Mistake (Only One 6)

I get off my stool, grabbing my purse, and he waits for me. “After you,” he says, holding out one hand as he puts his hat back on his head. He puts his hand on the lower part of my back, and I can feel the heat from his hand coming through the silky fabric.

“Thank you,” the hostess says to us with a huge smile. “Come again.”

“Thank you,” I say to her as I walk out of the restaurant and move to the side of the door, not to stand in the way. The wind has picked up, and my hair is flying all over the place. I stop and look at Michael, who is a head taller than me, and now that he’s standing, I can take in his whole body. You can tell from the way he wears his gray T-shirt that his chest is defined. His legs look thick in his jeans. “Well,” I say, pushing the hair away from my face. “I have to admit.” He waits for me to talk. “I’m going to go out on a limb right now and say that I had a better time than if my blind date had shown up.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thank you for that, Michael.”

He nods at me. “It was my pleasure.” He starts to lean in, and I hold my breath, thinking he’s going to kiss me. My eyes stay open the whole time, just in case my head plays games with me later on and says it didn’t happen. His lips come to my cheek, and my whole body lights up. “A great welcome to Dallas,” he says, smirking.

“Drive safe,” I say, and my heart sinks when he turns and walks away. I want to watch him, but my eyes fly back down. “No use in drawing out the inevitable,” I say, taking my phone out of my purse and seeing twenty missed text messages.

I pull up the Uber app and order a car. I wait for the black dot to stop spinning, and it says that my driver will be here in ten minutes. Switching over to the text app, I scroll to the missed texts from Julia.

Julia: Where did you go?

Julia: Did he show up?

Julia: Um, hello?

Julia: You are freaking me out.

Julia: You are really worrying me. Can you tell me that you are okay?

The rest of the messages are the same, and I think about what to text her back. What can I possibly say? I had the best time ever with a guy who was not Zander, and I let him leave without even asking him for his number? I close my eyes, and all I can see are Michael’s blue eyes.

Me: I’m fine. On my way home. I’ll call you tomorrow.

I press send and see the three dots come up at the same time as a car pulls up. I look up to see the SUV, and the passenger window rolls down. He leans over, and I can see that he took off his hat as he looks at me. “You are not Riccardo,” I joke with him.

Chapter 7

Michael

Just drive away, my head told me. You did your good deed for the night, let her be. I sat in the SUV, looking in the rearview mirror. “Just drive away.” I closed my eyes. “But she drank, and what if.” I knew she was beautiful when I saw her, but she became even more beautiful when we started talking. She made me feel things I didn’t know how to explain or put my finger on. I also never wanted her to stop laughing. I could have spent the whole night just listening to her laugh. Even when she asked me about the girls and wanted to hear about one of the dates I’ve been on. I omitted telling her that I didn’t even score with said girl. Instead, we both passed out mid-make-out session, and when she rolled over the next morning and kicked me in the balls, that is when I woke up. The woman thought I had game, if only she knew how many times I’ve gone home alone instead of with someone.

When we walked out of the restaurant and she turned to me, the wind blowing her hair, her cheeks a slight pink, and her lips were so plump they were dying to be kissed. Or at least I was dying to kiss her. My head moved before my brain realized what it was doing, and at the last minute, I went for the cheek. I ran out of there so fast I didn’t even get to ask for her number. I got in the car, and if she wasn’t close by, I would have screamed out my frustration.

Starting the car, I pull out of the parking spot. I look over at her, and her head is down as she types on her phone. Driving slowly in front of the restaurant, I stop beside her. Her head is down as I press the button for the window to roll down. “You are not Riccardo.” She laughs back at her phone. “Definitely not Riccardo. He’s driving a Honda Civic, and this is not a Honda Civic.”