"You're old fashioned, really?"
In some ways, yeah. I nod.
"The old-fashioned tattoo artist. Hmm... I guess I can see it. Just don't tell me you have a problem with feminism. I can overlook a lot of deal breakers with someone so... well, you know you're handsome."
I nod. "Why would I have a problem with feminism?"
She shrugs. "A lot of guys I... date. They're threatened by women with power. Or a woman who knows what she wants. Or wants to pay."
"I always pay for a first date."
"And the second date?"
They're rarer. Third dates too. Fourth dates—it's been a long, long while since I've had a relationship that lasted longer than three dates. "You negotiating?"
She laughs. "I guess so."
There. The waitress is walking by.
I hail her. Motion to Anna.
She orders another glass of white wine, some specific label, and a brussel sprout salad.
I order Jameson and sliders. Good whiskey, but not look at how much money I have showy.
Anna leans a little closer. "I think you might have me if you tell me you're a feminist."
"I have you already."
Her voice lifts. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah."
"Not so humble, I guess."
No. Not so humble.
I lean forward. Stare into Anna's blue eyes. Try to find something to latch onto—something I want.
She's hot. Smart. Funny.
But all I can think about is Kaylee.
Those big, green eyes.
All the hurt in them.
Because of me.
Necessary hurt, yeah. She needs to know I'm not available.
I need to know it.
; I need to convince my body and my heart that there's no way I'll ever have Kaylee in my bed.
But, fuck, the thought of stripping her out of that sweet sundress, dragging those cotton panties to her ankles, and planting between her legs—