“That’s why you never responded?”
He nods. “Yeah, that’s why I never responded. But I couldn’t wait to see you too. You could throw the contest out the window right now and I would still want to date you. I would still want to play video games with you and fix your camera and have dinner with you. And I would still want to take you back to my house. And I would still want to take you out again the next day.”
“You would?”
“Yes. I told you I thought you were hot the very first time I met you, and then we talked and you were so much more.”
“I am?” My heart is ping ponging with happiness inside me.
“Yeah, you are. You’re tough, and you’re smart, and you’re intensely independent, and you like music, and you’re just this totally cool chick.”
“So, speaking of music, you got any music on that bad boy or are you just geeking out with your DIY podcasts?”
“I have many songs. Would you like to see?”
“Yes.”
“I have a whole playlist of cover songs,” Chris continues. He touches the menu button and scrolls through to his playlists, tapping on the one for covers. I lean in close to read the names, and he wraps his arm around my waist. It’s such a date gesture and such an unfamiliar one to me, but as his fingertips press against my hip bone, I know I could get used to this with him. I could so get used to the feel of his hands on me, from how he touched my face when we kissed by the car last weekend, to how he played my fingers in the electronics store, and to the way he’s holding me now. It borders on a possessive gesture, as if he’s saying that I’m with him.
And that is what he’s saying. Because right here, right now, I am with him. I shift closer, and he holds me tighter, and it’s getting increasingly harder to concentrate on anything but his touch.
I try though, tapping the playlist. “Killing Me Softly by the Fugees. I love that. I am telling you, that is how that song was meant to be sung.”
“Couldn’t agree more. Same goes for Physical by Jane Black. So much better than Olivia Newton-John’s version, don’t you think?”
“Hell yeah.”
“She did to that song what Aretha did to Otis Redding with Respect. ‘That girl done stole my song,’ is what he said.”
I laugh, then look at his playlist again. “Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Love that version.”
“It’s so haunting, don’t you think?” I look at him, seeing something, a passion, a spark, in those amazing green eyes of his. “I don’t think there is a more beautiful song. I love it every time I hear it.”
I enjoy hearing him talk about music, open up a bit about what moves him. I love that he thinks Hallelujah is a beautiful song, and not just because I happen to agree. I love that he loves it because that shows he has passion, he has feeling, he can be moved by a song. I love his clothes, and I love his hair, and I love his beautiful face, and his strong hands, and the way he touches, and if this keeps up there won’t be enough room inside me for all of the feelings that I can barely contain. It’s like a waterfall, how suddenly this rush has come over me, and I want to be close to him.
But I am so scared, and I am so good at finding ways to bat those feeling aside.
“You know what I would name my band if I were in a band? Cult of the Neon Santas. So that’s what I named my wireless network.”
“Bet that gets all your rock star desires out of your system. Mine would be Pizza for Breakfast.”
“I love that name and having that on the menu,” I say, then take a drink of my grapefruit and vodka. “You want to know why I’m not a rock star, Chris?”
“Why are you not a rock star, McKenna?”
“It’s not because I can’t sing. It’s not because I can’t hit a note if my life depended on it. And it’s not because I can’t play a guitar,” I say, layering in a pause for effect. “It’s because I can’t stand being in a car for more than one hour. It would make me crazy having to drive all over this country from gig to shining gig.”
Chris laughs, then tucks a strand of my hair back behind my ear. “You’re funny, McKenna.”
I’m funny. He says I’m funny. I feel like Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer when Clarice tells him he’s cute. Rudolph scampers off, joyous and happy, shouting, “She thinks I’m cute! She thinks I’m cute!”
I could so fall in love with him. I could fall in love with him in a heartbeat. He brings his other hand to my waist, and pulls me in close. He’s seated on the bar stool, and I’m standing as I slide into the V between his legs, his firm thighs now on either side of me. The distance between us narrows, and the temperature rises. Like this, with him so close, I can tell how much he wants me. As much as I want him. I am turned on beyond belief, my skin is so hot, and my body is aching all over with the need to be touched, and he knows it. And just like that, the mood between us here at Circa Rose shifts. It’s no longer flirty, or chatty, or get to know you. We’re no longer a guy and girl confessing to crushes and likes. As he plays with the waistband of my skirt, his hand dipping inside, stroking the bare skin of my h*ps just above my panties, we are a man and a woman who want to get the hell out of here. The air between us is electric, like the moments before a summer storm.
“We don’t need to shoot that promo anymore, do we?” he asks, and his voice is different now too. It’s smoky and low, and as he brings me in closer, I can tell he’s gone to the same place I’ve gone to. Desire. And then the hope that we can take this contact to another level.
“I was really hoping to see your fancy studio though,” I tease.
“It has a nice couch.”
“We could do a lot on a couch.”
“It’s ten blocks away.”
“That’s far,” I say, and I’m keenly aware of how my voice has become a ragged whisper. He has to know what I want right now. Him. His green eyes are dark, shadowed with lust and staring intensely into mine. He’s waiting for me to say more. “But I think I really want to see that couch.”
“Good, because I would really f**king love to make out with you properly right now.”
There is no option to do anything else. There is no way I will go anywhere right now, but to this studio that’s ten blocks away. I cannot conceive of doing anything else in this moment but being alone with Chris. He takes my hand, gripping it tight, and guides me to the front of the bar, then the sidewalk. In seconds flat, he’s hailed a cab.