Molly lets out a loud laugh, then leans in to press her cheek to mine, speaking in a commiserating tone. “In that case. Let’s get you ready, because you know you’re going to be pressed up against it later.”
Like I needed a reminder?
Matthew
As the forward for a professional hockey team, I shouldn’t theoretically be nervous about this date; after all, I’ve been in much more stressful situations: performing in a packed arena of twenty thousand plus people. Being in the spotlight during the televised National Hockey League draft at twenty-one years old. I mean - I get my face bashed in on national television with hockey sticks on a weekly basis, for Christ’s sake.
And yet, here I am with goddamn butterflies in my stomach.
Damn inconvenient is what it is.
I wasn’t even this nervous when I got laid for the first time at the ripe old age of fifteen, and had no clue which parts of my anatomy went where. Granted, my slutty junior date at the time sure knew where to put my dick, but still…
I grab the keys off the table in my condo’s small foyer, flip the lights off, and before I know it, I’m pulling into Cecelia and Molly’s apartment complex. It’s now November, so the air is frigid and the trees are almost devoid of leaves. In the sky, the moon struggles to rise in the horizon, even though it’s not quite dark enough to stand out against the setting sun.
I saunter up the walkway, trying to find my swagger and feel like – with all the anticipation surrounding this date - I’m picking up a prom date.
The door whips open before I can even knock, and Weston stands in the doorway, cocky grin on his face. My sister peeks out from behind him.
“How did you know I was coming? There isn’t even a peephole.”
Weston’s narrow eyes rake me up and down, like I’m some shady teenager there to molest his precious teenage daughter. “Hey. How about you not worry how I knew you were coming – how about you just worry about yourself.”
I find this hilarious and smack him on the shoulder. “That’s funny. Is Cecelia ready yet?” I glance around the small apartment, no trace of her readiness lingering anywhere.
Molly purses her lips. “Brother, why don’t you have a seat on the couch while Weston cleans off his shotgun. Hardy har.”
They’re acting like protective parents.
It’s really kind of annoying. “Would you two knock it off?” I pull out a kitchen bar stool, but don’t sit on it.
“I know what boys like you want,” Molly grins suggestively. “And our Cece is a good girl - so no funny business. Keep your hands to yourself.”
“Um, yeah. That’s not gonna happen,” I laugh as Weston punches my upper bicep. “Ouch! What the hell was that for? I was kidding.”
Only I wasn’t; not really.
“Chill, I’m taking her to the Pee-Wee Hockey Expo and then for hot chocolate or something. There isn’t going to be a lot of opportunity for groping. Well, I mean – there’s always the locker room….”
Except, the sarcastic words I’m about to say falter in my throat when Cecelia choses that moment to come out of her bedroom, looking fresh faced and casual in a plain, tight, short sleeve gray tee shirt, dark skinny jeans and tall tan equestrian boots.
Smiling, she slips her arms into the red, tartan plaid button down flannel shirt she’s holding, quickly buttons the two buttons in the center, pulls on a tweed puffy vest, and stuffs a gray knit hat into the pocket.
I take her in from head to toe, drinking in every delectable ounce of her; to say she looks cute is a gross understatement.
“What? You told me to dress warm,” she jokes. “I wanna be prepared.”
Um, yeah – I have no intention of keeping my hands to myself: not after waiting for so long, and sure-as-shit not after that heated first kiss Cecelia and I shared at the Lone Ranger a few nights ago.
No way.
Weston catches me staring and punches my arm again, staring daggers at me.
I shrug.
Sorry dude; the hands-off thing is so not going to happen.
Cecelia
“So. Where are you taking me?” I ask my date, giving him a sideways glance. His eyes are intent on the road, so I’m able to freely linger (see also: ogle) on every sharp curve of his face every time an oncoming car passes, headlights illuminate the cab making my perusal easier. Every plane of Matthew’s strong, freshly shaved jaw is sharper in the dark… as is the small bump just at the bridge of his nose, and the scar near his temple.
His hair is still slightly damp from his shower, the thick tresses combed back but still somehow unkempt, black sunglasses propped on his head even though the sun has long since disappeared over the horizon.