Page 76 of Napkins and Other Distractions
“The first date do-over. LEGO Discovery Center. The kissing in my office. The … shower and what just happened in your bed. Does it mean we’re dating? Because Corrine is going to want to know. And Ruth is already asking if we’re ‘friends with benefits,’ or something more and I’m not sure myself.”
“Well, we’re friends.” A ribbon of anticipation twirls inside my stomach.
“Um, yeah, but friends don’t typically sit on my face.” Kent cocks an eyebrow.
“Noted.”
He comes up behind me. His hands wrap around my stomach and travel to my chest, cupping my pecs. He pulls me close, his beard tickling my neck, and I smell the minty freshness. The man brushed his teeth. Before eating dinner. After eating me.
“Would you be okay if we said we’re dating?” He kisses my neck softly.
“Why would you want to date me? I’m … ” I stop talking and grab another napkin from the drawer. I place it between our two plates, just in case. All the time we’re spending together, the bubbling emotions, Marvin saying we’re bashert … does Kent want more? With me?
“Sexy. Amazing. Kind. Sweet. Did I mention sexy?” Kent’s hands grab my chest, and he gently massages.
My heart pounds, and in the quiet space, I can almost hear it thumping. I reach for my glass of water and take a sip, the cool wetness pacifying my parched mouth.
“But, I’m the extra napkins guy. The joke you tell friends at a party.”
Kent kisses my neck four times and whispers, “Vincent Manda, you are not a joke.”
“Kent, I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m forty. I’ve kind of given up on romance.”
“That’s not true,” he says, spinning me around on the stool, our faces inches apart. “You go on all those first dates. You know what that tells me?”
He waits for me to reply. I’m silent, laying my head on his shoulder. Closer.
“It tells me you’re hopeful. Optimistic. You keep trying. That’s not someone who’s given up. Sometimes it takes time for the right person to wander into your life.”
An itching tingles my ass, a reminder of Kent’s beard. My stomach churns, the bulgogi taco salad taunting me.
My head rests on Kent’s shoulder, facing away. I take a breath, and the security of his closeness allows the truth to pour out.
“You’ll be the end of me. Once you figure out just how damaged I am, you’ll run for the hills.” Finally, I’m able to admit my genuine fear. “And honestly … I’m not sure my heart could take it.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes. Sharing my vulnerabilities with Kent is a mix of relief and a sense of being overwhelmed, like treading water in an endless ocean.
“Vincent Manda. Look at me. Please.”
I lift my head and catch his eyes. Unable to contain them, salty drops stream down my cheeks. And certainly, this will be the icing on top of the chaos cake that sends Kent running for the hills.
He reaches up, wipes a tear away with his thumb, and says, “Oh, my sweet Vincent.”
I blink, waiting for him to continue.
“Don’t you understand? I already see you. All of you.” He pokes my chest. “And I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. Look at me. Tripping over my own feet. My hair will be all salt, no pepper soon. Who else would want me?”
“I love your hair,” I say, running my hands under his V-neck. The softness under his shirt creates a charge when my fingers graze it. “It’s soft and cozy and fuzzy. Just like you.”
“Well, my hair loves you.”
Kent smiles, and I gently kiss him. His hands wrap around my neck and then migrate to my head. He pulls me closer, deepening the kiss, and my heart melts a little. We stand in my kitchen, our food and LEGO Paris in the background, and connect. With our mouths. Our words. Our hearts. Being honest and open with Kent might not end me. Maybe being truly vulnerable will save me.
“Are we ready for training?”
Hunched over his laptop in the conference room, Geoff’s brow furrows as he completes the back end of the test data prep. This is where my expertise wanes, and I’m grateful for Geoff’s technical brain. I’ve gathered the requirements and data from first grade. We’ll use that for testing and training. Kent downloaded the data from the school’s current legacy system, GradePlus. It’s an antiquated, manually coded system, and each data point needs to be mapped and then meticulously transferred to the corresponding Hopscotch field. That’s my job, and being anal is my forte. Well, where work is involved.
“Locked and loaded,” I say. “I logged in this morning. Load times were acceptable. The test data looks good.”
