Making Up Page 4

  “How do you mean?”

  “There seem to be these unwritten life rules that everyone follows. At least that’s been my observation. At the end of high school, we’re asked to choose this one thing we think we might want to do for the rest of our lives before we’ve even had a chance to experience anything independently. If we’re lucky and we can afford it, we go to college, get a job that we’re supposed to love for the next four decades, get married, have 2.1 kids, potentially devote our entire existence to their personal development, get guilted into buying a dog, and then go on a vacation a couple of times a year to escape the monotony. It all seems kind of backward to me. I want some of those experiences now, so I can frame my career path and the rest of my choices with something other than starry-eyed hope.”

  “That’s an interesting way to look at it.” And smart. She’s right, most of us follow the path we’re told to because it’s what everyone expects.

  She dips her head, focusing on her float. “I don’t want to end up trapped in a job I don’t enjoy, wasting all those hours every week wishing for something else. Obviously working where I do, I can say with one hundred percent certainty adult toy sales is not my dream job.” She bites the end of her straw. “What about you? I’m assuming the suit and golf attire mean you’ve got some kind of office job where you hold meetings on the green.”

  “That obvious, huh?”

  She holds her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Tiny bit, but I’m trying not to hold it against you.”

  “I work in the hotel industry.”

  Cosy perks up. “Really? Like hotel management?”

  “Sort of. It’s a family business. Sometimes we renovate and facelift existing hotels.” I don’t exactly want to lie about my job, but complete honesty means divulging more about myself than I like on a first date. And I have a feeling Cosy isn’t the kind of woman who would be impressed by my family or their money. In fact, it’d probably have the opposite effect.

  “Do you travel a lot, then?”

  “I do. I’m in Vegas for a few more months. After that, it’s back to New York, which is home base. We’ll take all my research from here and decide whether we want to invest or go in another direction.”

  “So you’re here until what, end of May?”

  “For now that’s what it looks like, but if we push a project here, I could be back again.”

  Cosy bites her lip and nods. “And if not?”

  “Then it’s off somewhere else. What about you? Where are you headed next?” I don’t want to put her off by telling her I’m not going to be here in a few months, but she doesn’t seem to be looking to stick around either, which means this could just be casual. Easy, no strings, a few months of hanging out and having fun, which isn’t something I’ve ever done before. I’m generally a serial relationship kind of guy.

  She leans back, tipping her head to the side. “I’m not sure. I have an internship at the end of term, and there are so many options. I like the idea of a cruise ship, but I’m wary about being on a boat for a month. It’s all about new experiences, though, so we’ll see.”

  “You’re a lot different than I thought you’d be,” I tell her.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just how you were at the store compared to how you are here.” I motion to her relaxed posture and easy demeanor. “It’s not the same.”

  “Oh, well, I kind of treat that job like I’m acting on a stage, you know?” She fiddles with her straw. “I mean, I have to sell a lot of strange things to people, so I put on my salesgirl mask, and it makes it a lot easier to answer some of the crazy questions I get asked. It’s better to pretend I’m someone else and not me when I’m discussing personal-pleasure devices, because really, that’s just awkward.”

  I grin when she rolls her eyes, either at herself or an internal thought, I can’t be sure. “Yes, I suppose it would be quite awkward.”

  Our burgers arrive, and the conversation slows and shifts as Cosy digs in. She doesn’t pick apart her food; instead she devours it like she hasn’t eaten in a week. She’s down to her last two onion rings when she pushes her plate toward me. “Oh! You need to try one of these before I finish them.”

  “I’m good. I still have a pile of fries, but thank you.”

  Cosy lifts a casual shoulder. “Suit yourself, but they’re the best item on the menu aside from the double cheeseburger and the creamsicle float.”

  She polishes off what’s left on her plate and pats her tummy, groaning at how full she is. Her toes curl against the side of my leg, and I resist the urge to run my hand up her shin so I can feel how soft her skin is.

  I pop a fry into my mouth and grin. “I’m actually highly impressed by your ability to pound that burger. I had my doubts, but you’re clearly a professional.”

  Cosy lets out an embarrassed laugh. “I had class this morning and had to rush to work right after, so all I’ve had since noon is a couple of chocolate-covered granola bars. They don’t really stick with you.”

  “I imagine they don’t. If you think you can handle it, I’d be willing to split one of those sundaes with you.” I point to the poster on the wall showcasing a massive banana split.

  She takes a deep breath and pats her stomach. “I can make room.”

  I’m pretty damn impressed with her lack of fucks given about plowing through an entire meal and finishing it off with a sundae. My ex would eat two bites and complain about it being too much sugar or whatever excuse she could come up with to avoid eating more. When you grow up in the kind of environment I did, it’s fairly common practice for women to eat like food is poison, so this is refreshing.

  Cosy flags down the server and puts in an order for the three-scoop banana split with marshmallow cream sauce in addition to the chocolate fudge and strawberry sauce it comes with.

  I tap on the table, aware that we’re getting closer to the end of this date and there’s a question I need an answer to before I go asking for a second date—which I definitely want. “So, Cosy, how old are you exactly?”

  A sly grin tips the corner of her mouth. “How old are you?”

  I mirror her smile. “I asked you first.” Please let her be close to twenty-five.

  Her right eyebrow arches. “I’m not jailbait, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I wasn’t. I’m fairly confident they don’t let women under eighteen work in adult stores.” But I sincerely hope she’s at least legal drinking age. I’ll be seriously disappointed if she’s in the undateable age range.

  “Mmm. Good point. I’m twenty-two.” She pokes at her half-consumed float, expression curious and hopeful. “And if I had to guess, I’d say you’re what, twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

  I’ve already done the math in my head. I have this equation for ethical dateability. It probably came from my cousin Lincoln, but it’s stuck with me since college days when it was hard to tell the difference between the enjoy - your - time - in - prison freshman and the totally dateable sophomores. To stay out of the creep zone, I divide my age in half and add seven. So at thirty-three the lowest I should go is twenty-three. I wonder when her birthday is.

  “You’ll need to go up a bit.” A hot feeling works its way along my spine, and I rub the back of my neck.

  Cosy bites her lip, inspecting my face. “Twenty-nine?”

  “Not quite.”

  “Thirty?” That hopefulness holds a hint of concern now.

  “Thirty-three.”

  “Oh, wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that at all.” Her body language changes, the easy openness shifting to hesitant and reserved.

  “Is that a problem for you?”

  Debbie picks that exact moment to show up with the sundae. It only has one spoon. She’s oblivious to the tension at the table, asking if we need refills. Neither one of us looks at her when we tell her we’re fine.

  “’Kay, enjoy the sundae.” She flits off.

  “Cosy?” I should probably enjoy the rest of this date
and forget about her because she really is a lot younger than I am. But then maybe that’s part of her allure. She doesn’t have a decade of relationship baggage. With her lifestyle, she’s not looking to settle down. In a few months she’ll be off on her next adventure, and so will I.

  She swirls her straw in her nearly empty glass before she finally answers. “My cap is usually mid-to-late twenties.”

  “Mine is usually midtwenties. When’s your birthday?”

  “Not until January. When’s yours?”

  Which means she only turned twenty-two recently. “October.”

  She cringes, and I laugh. “I guess I should’ve lied, huh?”

  She drops her chin and shakes her head before she peeks up at me with a wry grin. “Might’ve bought you a few extra dates.”

  My stomach sinks, and I don’t bother to hide my disappointment. As much as this shouldn’t be something to entertain, I like Cosy. She’s fun and easy to talk to and not guarded or looking to climb the social ladder because of who I am or what I could do for her. And it doesn’t seem like either of us is looking for something serious. So I’m not willing to give up that easily. “If I’d asked you for a second date before I told you my age, would you have said yes?”

  “Maybe.” She debates that for a second. “Probably.”

  “Probably?”

  “Well, I can’t unknow what you’ve told me, so that changes things.”

  “Why?”

  “It just does.”

  “Because of some arbitrary cut-off age you’ve decided on?” Until now, I’ve followed the same set of rules, but I’ve been playing by them all my life and they’ve gotten me nowhere good. Four long-term relationships and one broken engagement later, it might be time to shake things up.

  “It’s not arbitrary,” she says defensively.

  “Oh? Care to explain, then?”

  She dips the spoon into the whipped cream and licks it off. “Well, there’s this formula.”

  “What kind of formula?” My voice has dropped two octaves, thanks to her potentially unintentional sexually charged licking. Or maybe it’s the possibility that I’m not going to find out what it’s like to kiss her, thanks to my stupid fucking question. And I do want to kiss her, despite the ridiculous number of onions she’s eaten.

  She dips the spoon into the ice cream. “So I take your age and divide it by two—”

  “—and add seven,” I finish with a smile.

  The spoon hovers midair, and her mouth drops open. “You know about that?”

  “I do. Not sure it’s worked all that well for me in the past, though.” The ice cream is melting on her spoon, threatening to drip on the table. I reach across and cover her hand with mine, pulling her forward as I lean in and clean off the spoon. It’s all very high school style flirting. I drop back down in my seat and rub my thumb over my lip.

  “Thirty should be my cap,” she says softly.

  “And twenty-three should be mine.”

  “Twenty-three and a half,” she corrects.

  “I was rounding down so you’d feel better about being close to my minimum. Maybe we could make a concession this one time and see how that goes?”

  She smiles shyly. “Maybe we could.”

  “Maybe?”

  She plucks the cherry from the sundae and sucks off the whipped cream with a smile. “Well, I already broke my no-dating-STW-customers rule with you, so what’s the harm in breaking another one?”

  Chapter Four: Onion Kisses

  Cosy

  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Okay. I know what I’m doing. I’m using food suggestively, and of course Griffin is taking it as an invitation to get closer, because it is one. It makes me feel both juvenile and powerful in some strange way. He moves from his side of the booth to mine. Here’s the thing about older guys, as a general rule, they know what they’re doing. They’ve been down the dating road before. They know how to work it.

  Griffin could have picked me up in his sweet car and taken me out to some fancy restaurant where he’d buy an expensive bottle of wine—which I wouldn’t appreciate at all since the only wine I usually drink is in cooler form—and I’d be expected to order some expensive meal, eat a few bites, and pretend I was full. Then after dinner he’d take me back to his place for a drink, and I’d get naked. At least that’s how I imagined it would go. So I took control of this date and made it alcohol- and pretention-free.

  I knew Griffin was older before I said yes to going out with him. He had a five o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon the first time I met him. Most guys my age are lucky if they can grow a half-assed ’stache.

  I’m twenty-two, and the oldest guy I’ve dated was four years older than me and still in college because he couldn’t figure out what he wanted to do with his life. At least that was his excuse.

  He also worked at a nightclub three times a week and did a lot of recreational drugs. I’m not sure he was ever destined to graduate. Older men are more my sister’s speed. Although, Griffin would be on the low end of her dating age. Usually her boyfriends are approaching sugar-daddy status. They’re rarely less than fifteen years older, drive expensive cars, and boast padded bank accounts.

  Nevah is the queen of stringing along loaded assholes until either she gets bored, they want more, or they stop spending money on her and providing her with a place to live. It’s a pretty shallow existence, but then Nev doesn’t like to do a lot of depth.

  I, on the other hand, consider myself a free spirit. Not free with my vagina, but free to do as I please when I please. Relationships tie you down, and make you accountable to someone else, which is not what I want at this stage in my life. So normally I’d shut down a guy like Griffin. In fact, I had every intention of doing that when I came here for this ridiculous date.

  But he’s really damn hot. And he’s actually fun to talk to, so here I am, tucked into the booth, his bulging bicep rubbing against my arm as he steals the spoon and takes a massive bite of the sundae we’re apparently sharing with a single utensil.

  He doesn’t look old. Not that thirty-three is old, but the decade that separates us feels like a significant amount of life experience I don’t have yet. Regardless, he’s only here for a few months, and I’m sure all he wants is someone with perky boobs and an in-depth knowledge of sex toys to pass the time with.

  I’m willing to give him at least one more shot. Then I’ll reevaluate my position. Which will not be under him, tonight, for anyone wondering. I don’t give it up after the first date. Doesn’t mean I can’t have fun with him, though.

  I dip the cherry into the whipped cream and pop it back into my mouth. I’m very aware Griffin is watching me. I can feel his eyes on my mouth. So I turn, slowly, and pull it out with a pop.

  He grabs the cherry dangling from my fingers, frees it from the stem, and tosses it into his mouth, biting down with a cheeky grin.

  “Hey! I was going to eat that.”

  He leans in and lowers his voice, eyes intense, but he’s still wearing the hint of a smile. “You were being obscene. This is a family establishment.”

  I consider arguing, but he’s right. I was purposely being inappropriate, and there’s a family of four sitting two tables over with a tween boy who keeps looking over here, and his face is beet red.

  Griffin refuses to relinquish the spoon and insists on feeding me bites of the sundae. I humor him until he starts pulling the spoon away when it’s half an inch from my mouth so he can eat it instead. After that, I steal it back and purposely miss his mouth more than once.

  “You have terrible aim; you should give that spoon back.” He drags his tongue across his top lip, licking away my sad attempts at feeding him. I wonder what it would be like to have him eat ice cream off of me. Messy probably, and sticky. And fun.

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like what?” he asks.

  “You don’t seem like you take yourself too seriously.”

  He stretches his arm across
the back of the seat. I can see his hand in my peripheral vision, close to my shoulder but not touching. “I have to be serious all day at work. I prefer to be the opposite of serious when I’m not making important decisions that could potentially cost my family a lot of money should I choose the wrong course of action.”

  I feel like he’s given me a very clear glimpse into who he is under the smile and the gorgeous face and the very nice body, so I press for more. “Do you have to do that a lot? Make important decisions?”

  “It’s a significant part of my job.” His expression turns mirthful. “Do you always have terrible aim, or is that just for my benefit?”

  “It’s totally for your benefit. And really, if you wanted to stop me you could. I mean look at that.” I poke his bicep and flex my own. “Pretty sure you’d beat me in an arm wrestling competition, so it’s obvious you enjoy wearing ice cream as much as you enjoy eating it.”

  He wraps his hand around my bicep. I’m wiry, so his fingers touch each other as he gives it a gentle squeeze. “I enjoy you.” He’s still sort of smiling, but his voice is low and gravely, and there’s heat in his eyes. The kind that makes my tummy flutter and my palms instantly damp.

  He releases my arm, fingers dragging softly down my forearm in a way that causes desire to spark and warm me from the inside. I can’t seem to look away from his heavy gaze. At least until he steals the spoon back and shouts his victory, drawing the attention of a table of teens nearby.

  We eat the rest of the sundae and talk about our favorite places to visit. I’ve never been outside the US, but Griffin has been almost everywhere. He’s even spent time in China, which is definitely on my bucket list, along with Australia, the entirety of Europe, and parts of South America.

  We stay for so long that the dinner rush ends and the kids who play soccer at the field close by flood the diner after a game. They’re loud and obnoxious, so as much as I like talking to Griffin, it’s impossible to hear each other over their shrieking.

  “Can I drive you home?” Griffin asks as we step out into the dusky evening.