I find both Matthew and our close bodily contact all mildly erotic, and clear my throat to hide the onslaught of discomfort. I glance around the cab of his Tahoe, and am surprised to find it has been detailed. The garbage is gone. No gym bag, no hockey equipment, no crusty dirt or gravel stuck to the floor mats.
“You didn’t go and get your car cleaned for little ‘ol me, did you?” I tease.
He glances over for a heartbeat, dimple softly denting his cheek. “Guilty as charged.”
“You seriously went and had your car detailed for our date?” I’m stupefied.
Matthew wrinkles his nose. “Um, yeah? I mean… didn’t it stink the last time you were in it?”
“Well, yeah, it was pretty rank if I recall, but at the time I thought it’d be rude to mention it.”
My date throws his head back against the headrest and lets out a loud burst of laughter. Of course, I can’t help but admire the thick, straining cords of his neck column, and the dark stubble of Five O’clock shadow disappearing into the collar of his button down shirt.
He catches me studying him, and arches an eyebrow.
I clear my throat. “So…you like the color blue, huh?” I ask, referring to the light blue of his shirt. To be honest, it’s barely blue and is embroidered with a delicate paisley pattern in the same hue. Modern cut with long sleeves, Matthew has the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his broad, muscular forearms.
Very sharp.
Very dapper.
Muy delicioso.
He looks over and studies me back. “What makes you say that?”
“Nothing. I just noticed you wear blue a lot. You look very handsome tonight, by the way.”
“Thanks, you do too. Not handsome. Ugh, that’s not what I meant. Comfy. Pretty. You look amazing, is what I meant. Oh my god, I’ve turned into an idiot,” he laughs. “You can shut up any time now Matthew,” he adds, mocking himself in a low, grumbling voice. His laughter is soft but deep, and fills the cab of the Tahoe in a way that makes the space feel small.
Intimate.
Phew, is it hot in here? Maybe it’s time to crack the window and let some fresh air in!
I could easily reach over and touch him if I wanted to, but instead, I clear my throat. Again. We’ve been driving for a while, and I am dying of curiosity to know where we’re headed - without having to ask out right.
But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about guys it’s this:
They do not take hints very well.
Often, they need things “spelled out for them.”
Subtly is useless.
Once when I was younger, I wanted to go to the mall with my friends, and wanted my Dad to give me spending money. I tried hinting around for an entire day, dropping hints and being an overly dramatic teen. Finally, my Dad stopped me and said “If there’s something you’re trying to tell me by moping around, you better come out with it because I have no idea what’s happening right now. Men aren’t mind-readers Cecelia.”
So take my advice: come out and ask if you want something because a guy – no matter how smart - will never get the hint.
He. Just. Won’t.
Ever.
Besides, don’t you agree that beating around the bush is just a different form of game playing?
“Where are we going?” I cut to the chase, direct without sounding overly anxious.
“Nosey little thing, aren’t you?” Smiling, Matthew reaches across the center council to grasp my hand, interlocking our fingers. I look down at our joined hands, marveling at the difference in their size, shape and feel. While my hands are silky smooth from pampering and manicures, his are dry, rough and calloused.
A hard-working man’s hands. Utterly masculine.
There is a dusting of dark hair on his knuckles that actually makes me swallow a lump in my throat. Seriously – the hair on his knuckles is turning me on? Clearly I have issues…
I can’t stop staring at his thumb caressing my pale skin – the sensation feels both foreign and intimate: not necessarily a bad different, just… different.
“I’m sorry, is this too weird for you?” Matthew asks as if reading my mind – or my face. He’s probably noticed that my cheeks are on fire. In any case, I glance away from his heated, piercing green eyes, and tilt my chin up.
“If you’re trying to distract me so you don’t have to reveal our destination, it’s not going to work.”
Matthew snickers and squeezes my hand twice. “Maybe you should let yourself be surprised.”
“You can’t blame me for being curious,” I mumble, face turned towards the window. For a brief few moments, I quietly watch the landscape go by – a farm in the distance, windmills, and a small shopping center zoom past – before we pass a Target and a home improvement giant. I cannot imagine for the life of me where we could possibly be headed. “Can’t you just tell me?”