Page 10 of Ice Ice Maybe
“What’s wrong with the wordshortcomings?” she asked.
Wincing for the second time, I said, “Most men don’t like that word combination because it hits below the belt, if you catch my drift.”
“Well, I suppose I should choose my words more carefully,” Zena said. “How about I say I’m impressed you’rebig enoughto admit when you’re wrong?”
“Now you’re talking.” I laughed with her as she ran her hand up my arm to my elbow, then back down to my hand. “Now, who’s being flirty? Are you having fun?”
“It’s amazing—you hardly have any hair on your hands and arms,” she said. “I love how smooth they are. Jing is exactly the same, and it makes me so jealous.”
“Seriously?” I said. “You’re comparing me to a Chinese woman? Are you trying to eliminate all my masculinity during a single luncheon? What’s for dessert? A castration?”
Zena squeezed my arm, nodding her approval. “If it makes you feel better, I love your biceps. And your chest.”
I smirked. “You’re forgiven.”
We shared another laugh as she continued to hold on to my arm. We locked gazes. If the sparks bouncing off the walls between us had been hockey pucks, everyone in the restaurant would have been dead from acute head injuries. Her eyes, usually confident and teasing, now held a mix of surprise and something more intense. There was no doubt she was feeling it, too.
Zena was the first to break eye contact, glancing at her watch and frowning. “Unfortunately, I need to get back to work. I have a meeting with the board of directors at the foundation in thirty minutes.”
I nodded. “Of course. I’ll walk you to your car.” Once outside, I glanced around the parking lot. “Is the photographer still here?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, looking over my shoulder, then her eyes went wide.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Zena said. Before I could turn to look, she grabbed my hand and pulled me toward a blue older model Chevrolet Malibu. “This is me.”
“The car your dad hates,” I said.
“He says I belong in a BMW or Mercedes, but I can’t seem to give this one up,” Zena said. “I’ve had it since my college days. It has a lot of sentimental value.”
I nodded and inspected the car. “And more dings than a doorbell convention.”
She chortled. “Parking is not my strong suit. Anyway, thanks for meeting with me. This was an outstanding start. So you know, we have a date tomorrow night at Island Prime. It’s a welcome dinner for Mitch Redding. Six p.m. I’ll meet you there, but I need you to be ten minutes late.”
“Why?” I asked, puzzled by the specific instruction.
Zena grinned. “You need to make a grand entrance, for shock factor. Mitch isn’t expecting you and this will confuse and irritate him.”
I nodded slowly, trying to process this new information. “Okay, grand entrance. Got it. Anything else I should know?”
“Yes,” Zena continued, her tone all business now. “When you come in, you need to look ecstatic to see me. And you need to kiss me.”
I hesitated, feeling a knot form in my stomach. “Kiss you where?”
Zena looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “In the restaurant, of course! Where else?”
“No, I mean,” I fumbled and added, “Where on your body?”
“What kind of question is that?” Zena asked, exasperated.
“I need to know if I’m kissing you on the forehead, cheek, or ... lips,” I explained, feeling more awkward by the second.
Zena crossed her arms. “We’re supposed to be a fun and flirty couple, remember? You’d better be kissing me on the lips!”
I nodded, mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead.
“Are you sure you can handle this?” Zena asked with a hint of concern. “You’re worrying me.”
