“Strangely … no. You?”
Biting my lip, I shake my head.
“Tell me about the last guy you dated,” he says, as if it’s the most natural question in the world. “You wanted to know about my dating life. I want to know about yours.”
“I haven’t dated in years … but the last guy, he was an orthopedic surgeon, very much a workaholic—as was I at the time. We liked each other and he was nice, but we couldn’t make our schedules work.”
“Couldn’t or didn’t want to?”
“Maybe a little of both? It wasn’t like fireworks when we were together, but we were perfect on paper.”
“And the guy before him?” he asks.
“The guy before him was an associate professor of philosophy at Northwestern,” I say. “We went to a lot of local indie concerts, drank a lot of craft beer, and went out almost every weekend. But after a few months I realized he just wanted to relive his college days … over and over and over. In an unhealthy sort of way. We were all wrong for each other, but it was fun while it lasted.”
“And before him?”
“That would’ve been the pharmaceutical sales rep that I met at a bar after a Coldplay concert. Extremely handsome, made good money, very generous in every aspect of the word …” I say, “but he traveled a lot and wanted an open relationship, and I’m not really into sharing.”
“And before that?” His attention hasn’t left me for a second. It’s like he’s soaking in every last detail.
“If you’re trying to piece together whether or not I have a type, I can tell you I don’t. If I have chemistry with someone, wonderful. If I don’t, I move on. But I’ve never sought out a certain type of guy because he fits some perfect mold.”
“Everyone has a type.”
“Oh, yeah? Then what’s yours?” I ask.
“Psycho.” He takes a sip of water, hiding a smile. “And not by choice. I think I’m just drawn to women who captivate me at the start and then somewhere along the line, they flip a switch. Trying to break out of that though. Anyway, continue on with your history. Who’s next?”
“Wow. Okay. So before the pharmaceutical guy would’ve been my ex-husband. And we were together since high school, so unless you want me to get into my cringey middle school days, I suggest we stop there.”
“Do you ever see yourself dating again?” he asks.
“Maybe when Lucia’s older? It’s not like I can stay out all night, and I’m sure as hell not bringing some date home with me when I have a baby in the next room.”
“Good call,” he says. “So what do you do when you need a release?”
“Oh, I have Mr. Big for that …”
“Mr. Big?”
“Yeah. I mean, he’s not big. He’s more medium sized. But I call him Mr. Big. He’s always right there when I need him. Always on standby. Doesn’t talk back. Eager to please and amazingly efficient at getting the job done.”
“You’re talking about a sex toy,” he doesn’t miss a beat.
“Obviously,” I say, attempting to play it cool despite the fact that my cheeks are flushing ten shades of cherry red. I don’t even talk to my own sister about Mr. Big, and here I am describing my vibrator to Fabian Catalano.
“You don’t miss the real thing?”
“Of course I do. And kudos on the smooth transition from my dating life to my present-day sex life.”
“You’re the one that brought up your dildo … by name, I’d like to point out.”
“He’s not a dildo. He’s a vibrator. There’s a difference.”
Lifting a shoulder, he presses his full, flawless lips together. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never needed to use one on anyone before.”
I try to swallow, but I can’t.
The tension between is so ripe I could pluck it.
So much for any of this being low-key.
Fanning myself, I say, “This is, like, 10th date conversation and we’re not even dating.”
“Is it making you uncomfortable?”
“No, it’s just … not exactly what I had in mind when I said we should keep things casual …”
“This is casual, isn’t it? We’re having an open and honest conversation, Rossi. That’s kind of what we do … Besides, if I were hitting on you, you’d know.”
“Would I though? Because I’m really good at imagining things … too good, actually.”
“If I were hitting on you ....” He leans in, narrowing the space between us. Lifting his hand to my chin, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip. “… I’d kiss you right here.”
My heart gallops, irregular little trots that make me want to check my pulse, but I’m too frozen to move an inch.
His touch abandons my mouth, leaving a cold sensation in its place.
And I’m officially more confused than before.
“Okay,” I say. “Glad we cleared that up. But for the record, if I were hitting on you, I’d probably do this.” Reaching for his forehead, I brush a strand of silky dark hair from his brow before tracing my finger down his steel cut jaw. “And I’d do this.” Leaning in, I bring my lips inches from his mouth, until his sweet breath mixes with mine—and then I pull away. “Because I always want to make the first move, but then I chicken out at the last minute.”