Page 12 of The Disasters of Dating
I just stare at her. I mean, what am I supposed to say? What do I do? It’s not like I can help clean her up. And ‘I’m sorry’ for the third time in as many minutes seems overdone. Maybe even a bit insincere.
She looks down the front of her with one eye—the other one is still closed and watering. No words have escaped, and I’m not sure how to take it.
“Oh. My. Actual. Crap. This is all my fault. I’m not usually this clumsy.” I hand over my napkin—the piece of fabric that started this whole thing—and she wipes at her shirt and skirt.
She shakes her head. “No, it’s my fault. My horoscope said the universe would throw me some curveballs today. I didn’t realize how many of them would hit me in the face.”
I stare at her. She not only reads but also believes her horoscope? And she is blaming the universe when this is clearly my fault? I should thank the universe for taking one for the team. Even if I know better. “I’m pretty sure the universe had nothing to do with this.”
Our server chooses that moment to reappear. “Here is—oh.” She stares at the front of Poppy’s shirt and skirt, her lips twitching. “Can I get you something to help clean that up?” She sets our plates of food on the table.
Poppy looks up, and her hair falls away from her face. I suck in a breath. Where we’d hit heads is now about the size of a chicken egg and already a lovely blueish-purple. But that is nothing compared to what the colors around her eye will be. As someone who’s had a black eye or two, I know the signs.
“Goodness, gracious,” our server says helpfully. “Do you want some ice?”
“No,” we both shout. Whoever hadn’t already been watching our little two-person circus now watches us as if we were a car accident on the side of the road. Eating and conversations have ceased, and all eyes are on us.
“I’ll be fine. If I could just get a container for my burger and the check, I think I’ll call it an evening.” She looks at me with cautious eyes. “This wasn’t a very proper apology. But if I don’t get this shirt soaking soon, it will be ruined.”
“Don’t worry about the check, I’ve got it.” I swallow. It’s hard to look at her and not have my chest clench with guilt.
She shakes her head. “I can’t let you do that. It was supposed to be my apology. Not yours.”
The server’s brows arch slowly.
My lips turn up. If it weren’t all so ridiculous, this would make a great story to tell my grandkids one day. “I think you more than paid for that. I’ll take care of the bill.”
There is a look of relief that crosses her face. She had been worried then. My earlier antics now feel juvenile and mean. Why was I being such a jerk? She was just doing her job—one that I only made harder for her. “Why don’t you go deal with that?” I motion to hershirt. “I need to grab my luggage. I can bring your burger to you there.”
She watches me for half a second as if she’s wondering if leaving me alone with her food is a good idea. But then she looks down at her shirt and nods. “Thanks.”
I grab my money clip from my front pocket and move around the table as I pull out a fifty. “Here, you’re going to need to buy at least a new shirt. And as we both know, there is a big markup here.” I shrug.
Her lips turn up ever so slightly, and I feel that desire to kiss her again. Anyone who could even hint at a smile after what she’s gone through deserves more consideration.
“Keep your money,” she says. “I have an extra pair of clothes in my bag.” She motions to her gigantic purse/bag on the floor at her feet.
“You carry spare clothes with you on the off chance that some strange guy dumps soup down the front of you?”
A chuckle escapes her lips. “I’ve learned that when my horoscope warns me about a bad day, it’s better to be safe than sorry.”
Maybe I was wrong about her following her horoscope. Or at least in this case, it was a good idea. “Okay, you go change and try to salvage those clothes. I’ll meet you back at the shop with your dinner.”
She nods. “Thanks, Keaton.” Bending over, she picks up her purse. As she straightens, her head jerks back with a yelp. Her cheek is nearly resting on my stomach. “Ooch,” her hand reaches up. “I think my hair caught on something.” I can’t see her face, but there is a slight quiver in her voice. Is she about to cry? Man, I hope not. I don’t know how to deal with a crying woman.
Sure enough. I look down, and one of her braids is wrapped around a button on my shirt.
She is already working at it with her fingers, but the hair is caught close to her scalp, making it difficult for her to see what she is doing.
“Here, let me see if I can get it.” I pick up the braid, trying to unwrap it from my button. I can’t help but notice how soft her hair is. And the smell of her perfume is even stronger now. Any irritation I felt towards her after the near arrest is gone, and I’m back to wanting to ask her out— if anything, the desire is stronger. I want to get to know her better. I’m sure most guys would write this off as a bad date and move on. But it only makes me want to be with her more. She has handled it all with such grace.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally get the last bit of hair free. “I think that’s it.”
She stands up and her hair is—well, a hot mess. And that is beingkind. If you add it to her stained clothes, black eye, and goose egg forehead, she looks like she’s been through a war. Not on a date. I feel terrible.
I’m about to apologize again when something hits me from behind. I hear a male voice apologize to me, but it’s too late. I’ve already lost my balance and I’m falling toward Poppy, pushing her back onto the bench. My hands go on either side of her to brace my fall, but it doesn’t quite stop me in time. Our faces end up very close. So close that my lips may have grazed hers.
I pause as a trail of tingles travel over my lips. There is no “may” about it. I definitely kissed Poppy. And I can’t say that I’m disappointed. Or I’m not until I hear Poppy’s sharp intake of breath. I pull my thoughts together and push myself off the bench.
