Page 7 of The Last Date

“Thank you, Sasha, you’re an angel,” he smiled up at me.

My knees nearly gave out before my butt hit the chair. Oakley had called me an angel last night. I wasn’t sure why, but that was somehow the most romantic encounter I’ve ever had.

“Your party sounded like fun, dad,” I said casually. “You had a larger gang than usual.”

“Yes,” he said, chugging the juice as quickly as he could. “Marshall brought his coworker Steve, and Caspian brought his younger brother Oakley, but I believe you met him.”

Instantly my mother’s eyes leapt up from her crossword. “Carter, you weren’t allowing Sasha to socialize with a group of drunk, older men?”

“Relax, sweetheart, they weren’t drunk,“ my father said quickly. “Everyone was extremely well behaved, and I was serving coffee as well. I just noticed that Sasha and Oakley were chatting for a moment in the pool.”

She pursed her lips, then went back to her puzzle.

My dad shot me a look, then stared up to the ceiling, giving his head a shake. Stifling a giggle, I did the same. It was our father-daughter code for, “your mother is crazy” and “you married her.”

Dad was just as concerned that I only associated with upstanding, approved citizens, but he certainly didn’t want me dating yet. He liked knowing precisely where I was at all times. When I was little, Dad was paranoid about who I was with, but I chalked that up to being a daddy’s girl for a while. Now it was clear that he was concerned with the family reputation just as much as Mom , but he usually still had my back when Mom was being a bit much.

Now that I had very little in common with my parents, much of my time was spent alone, which was fine with me.

After making myself a giant smoothie, I took it to my room, not wanting to deal with my mother’s fussiness today.

All I could think about was the huge dragon tattoo that snaked around Oakley’s bicep, and the way he had been so casual about being in my personal space.

He was definitely older, probably in his mid-thirties. Was that too old for me to be interested in him?

My father was six years older than my mother, and nobody said a word about it. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal anymore. It certainly wasn’t for me.

Although if I was being extremely honest with myself, I’d considered it before and decided I would really prefer an older man. It would probably make some things a bit easier, since he had been around the block a few times. Finishing my breakfast drink, I realized that sounded terrible, even to myself.

Cleaning my room and organizing laundry took up a good portion of the day. Every single thing I did, I found myself wondering what Oakley would think. He called me an angel… Would he want to see me in a white dress, or something darker? Would he want to see me in something sexy, or classic?

Flopping across my bed, a shudder ran through me at the thought of how we met. He’d already seen every inch of me. He probably thought I was some sort of crazy exhibitionist.

But it was worth the embarrassment to see every inch of him. I’d never seen such a sexy man in my life. My mind’s eye wandered over his layers of sculpted muscle. The way he moved, the way he looked at me. His attitude. His heat.

Realizing that I was tugging restlessly on my bottom lip, I grabbed my phone and sent a text.

Me: Want to go for a jog before dinner?

Sarah: Sure. The A Trail or the B Trail?

Me: Definitely B. 4 o’clock?

Sarah: See you there.

I read a chapter of my book and did a bit of research on new local artists for work before pulling on my workout clothes at three-forty-five. Sticking my head into the dining room, Mom was looking at a collection of decorating magazines.

“Going out for a jog with Sarah, I’ll be back before six for dinner.”

“That’s lovely, dear. Have a nice time.”

Popping in my earphones, I jogged lightly down the street and around the corner, until I reached a tiny strip mall seven blocks away. It was shabby, rarely busy, and placed perfectly between Sarah’s fancy neighborhood and mine. Our sneaky hideaway when we didn’t want to be seen.

Whenever we “went for a jog”, Trail A meant that we’d meet at Andrew’s Cafe, and Trail B was Beverly’s Bar and Tavern.

The faint smell of ancient beer and lemon cleaner mixed with the soft country music to create a mellow haven. We didn’t have to worry about being under-dressed here in our jogging clothes – the only other customers were two older men who practically lived at the end of the bar.

Pulling out my earphones, I waved and smiled at Sarah. Seeing her wavy light cinnamon hair was like a signal that everything was going to be fine. Usually, the word “bubbly” was reserved for slightly annoying people, but she was perky and energetic without ever being too much.

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