Page 80 of The Fireman and the Flirt

The first stop was an Italian restaurant that overlooked the water. But the Hudson River couldn’t hold our attention. Derek and I looked at each other the whole time. We talked about…I didn’t even know what. It was one of those nights where the conversation poured out of us, like one of those champagne pyramids spilling from one topic to the next. I knew that I could talk, but so could Derek. He had a lot to say. I wondered if people were so used to assuming he was the strong, silent type that they didn’t try to engage him that much.

“Are you full?” he asked as he signed the check.

“I’m satiated. Italian food can sometimes put me into a food coma, but not tonight.” I didn’t want to be in a food coma and miss anything with him. And also…I wanted to be prepared for any activities that might come later.

“Good. Because now we’re onto the physical part of the date.”

My dick shot up in my pants. Even though we’d had sex multiple times, there would always be a part of me that felt like each time was the first with him.

“You don’t beat around the bush. I like that in a man.” I held up my wine glass and raised an eyebrow, apparently channeling the great Samantha Jones.

“I brought hoodies for us to stay warm.”

“Oh…wait, huh?” Was hoodies slang for condoms? How much of our changing lexicon was I missing not being on TikTok?

Derek closed the check and gave me a wink. “Let’s go, Perkowski.”

“I’m actually confused now. Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

25

CARY

“Why are we at a hockey rink?” I asked when his truck pulled up to the warehouse-looking building.

“Welcome to the physical part of the date. Ice skating.”

I blinked at him. Derek hadn’t known me long, but I thought he would’ve inferred that I had zero athletic ability outside of an elliptical.

“We’re going ice skating?”

“Yeah. It’ll be fun.” Derek pulled two ratty South Rock hoodies from his backseat. Hoodies were not slang for condoms. They were actual hoodies, and they would keep us warm on the ice.

Because we were going ice skating.

“Derek, it shouldn’t be a surprise that I suck at ice skating.”

He tipped his head at me, amused at my comment, the outside lights catching his face just right.

“You don’t suck at ice skating. You merely haven’t done it enough times. Oh, hey. That was a Caryism!” He gave himself a tiny fist pump, which was very dorky and very adorable. “When was the last time you did it?”

“When I was at Cory Washington’s birthday party in sixth grade. I was the kid who clung to the wall and took baby steps on the ice, and then when I finally built up the confidence to glide, I instantly fell on my ass.”

“I won’t let you fall.”

Such a swoontastic line. Why did it have to be in the context of ice skating?

“I’m going to pass,” I said, staring down the building, waves of humiliating childhood memories hitting me like a supersized hurricane that had become all too common nowadays.

“What size shoe are you?” Derek said, blatantly ignoring me.

“Can’t we take a leisurely stroll instead?”

He interlocked his fingers with mine. “Cary, do you trust me?

I squeezed his fingers. Derek had come up with this lovely date for us. I wouldn’t let my neuroses ruin it. They would have to chill in a mental waiting room for a few hours.

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