Page 20 of Love is an Open Book
“You know what I’m saying. It’s not the concept of nerdiness I’m attracted to. But if a woman is really passionate about...” His eyes dart to the binder, and he clears his throat. “Date or not, can we continue this discussion over dinner? I’m starving.”
Come to think of it, so am I. “Give me a second to change.” There’s a splatter of tomato soup on my shirt. All part of my plan to make sure Gavin got the message nothing between us has changed. But I draw the line at looking this sloppy in public.
I’m in the middle of swapping my stained shirt for a clean one when I hear him say, “We’re going to that new place by the center for the arts.”
Since I’m only wearing a bra, I poke my head back around the corner and see he’s scrolling on his phone. “The one with a wine list?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But that’s so fancy. I’ll have to put on real clothes.” He looks up and seems to register for the first time that I’m not dressed. His gaze skims my neck and shoulder, catching on the crimson strap of my bra before he glances away, clearing his throat. “If I have to take notes, the least you can do is wear pants with a zipper.”
“I draw the line at a zipper,” I say, wondering why my skin feels suddenly flushed. “And who mentioned notes?”
“Mia, I’ve known you for years. Don’t think for a second that I believe you’re going to leave that binder behind.”
Biting my lip, I duck back inside my room, unable to shake the image of how Gavin’s eyes darkened when he caught sight of me, his gaze on my bare skin almost tactile, like the slow tug of satin. Suddenly my unfinished manuscript is the last thing on my mind, and isn’t that the point of all this?
I slip on a gauzy sundress I bought on a recent procrastination shopping spree, fluff my curls, swipe on some lip gloss, and at the last second, take off my glasses. I usually wear contacts on dates, and even though this isn’t a date... Stepping back outinto the living room, I find Gavin by the door, spinning his keys on his finger. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was nervous.
I turn for him to zip my dress, and he obliges, fingertips warm.
“Thought you said no zippers.” This close, his words land like rose petals on the sensitive skin of my nape. Instinctually I turn toward him, but he takes a step back.
“Figured I could make an exception.” I actually like getting dressed up, but standing here next to him in heels and a dress makes this feel disconcertingly like a real first date.
I slide my fingers into the cutaway at my rib cage, loosening the fit, and his eyes dip for a moment, dark blond lashes lowered. Just as quickly, he pulls the door open, beckoning me through. “We’ve got a reservation.”
He wasn’t exaggerating—he really is committed. And even though this might be the most farfetched thing I’ve ever done, so am I.
Seven
Gavin
We’re seated on the rooftop terrace and Mia is squinting at me from across the candlelit table. It could be that she forgot to put in her contacts, but I have the sinking feeling it’s professional curiosity, which in her case means analyzing people’s motivations.
My reasons for going along with this scheme aren’t as altruistic as I made them out to be. This might be my only chance to find out if we could ever be more than friends. But things are already slipping off course. Instead of the romantic dinner I envisioned, I showed up to find Mia in a stained T-shirt, armed with a binder full of ways for us to avoid falling in love.
Seems like overkill, but then again, she has every right to guard her heart. I just wish she didn’t put me on the list of people who might break it. I’m not sold on the idea that experimenting with romance tropes makes more sense than fake dates, but hopefully I’ll be able to think more clearly once I’ve eaten something.
Hunger aside, Mia’s scrutiny is making me feel queasy. Resisting the urge to unbutton my collar, I ask, “Everything okay?”
Her eyes rake over me, like she’s taking in my gelled hair and dressed-up appearance. “Just wondering what entity body-snatched my friend,” she says. For a split second I wonder if the romantic setting and sunset have worked transformational magic and erased the best-friend filter from over my face. But then she adds, “You made a reservation.”
“It was supposed to be a date.” Fake or not, I wanted tonight to be special.
“It’s just surprising.” She shakes out the cloth napkin and lays it on her lap. “You never make reservations when we go out.”
“Because it’s not like that between us.”
“Like what?”
I let out an exasperated huff. “You know what.”
How can she be surprised that I act differently around women I’m dating? Then again, I guess there’s a difference between knowing and experiencing, because damn, when she came out of her room earlier, all long, bare legs and bouncy curls, it was impossible not to want her to be mine.
Years of knowing she was off-limits should’ve cured me, but all it took was one moment of experiencing what things could be like if we were together to make me crave more.
She sits back, putting distance between us. “It was thoughtful, that’s all. Thank you.”
