The Do-Over(19)

Handing my keys to the valet at the historic inn that Matthew had chosen for brunch, I stood for a moment on the gravel driveway trying to absorb and memorize the pleasant onslaught to my senses. I took in my surroundings, almost surprised that spring had shown up, as I breathed the brackish air blowing in off the Long Island Sound.

The distinguished establishment was perched high on a cliff overlooking Greenwich, Connecticut on the Sound’s far shores. I couldn’t help but get swept up into the romance of the white clapboard structure that had been in continuous operation, serving thirsty, hungry and weary travelers in its quaint setting, for nearly 300 years. I wondered what handsome pairs of lovers had sat in the bar, foreheads together, chatting conspiratorially, as they let the spicy citrus hues of their Pimm’s Cups rush in waves over their tongues and planned their summers on the island. Perhaps Zelda and F. Scott had passed a Sunday at the inn. Feeling as if I had to duck as I passed through the door, the lintel barely inches above my head, I wondered if Matthew was significantly taller than our nation’s forefathers and had to stoop over to enter the building.

My breath hitched at the base of my throat as I caught my first glimpse of him at the bar. The pictures were no lie. Dressed in tan khakis and a light blue polo, the first thing I noticed were the muscles in his thighs straining his pants’ leg and then I caught sight of his biceps. They were ridiculously huge. The man was Rob Lowe’s buff younger brother. Hot damn!

Slipping onto the barstool next to him. “Matthew?”

As he turned to greet me, I was most surprised by the intensity of his pale blue eyes. The bulging muscles and his square jaw disappeared as I was captivated by the clarity of his irises.

This man was trouble. Very few men looked like this, and those men were not on dating sites. They were models, actors, scions of business. They were not on blind dates garnered via internet and phone apps. With the ease of a U.S. Open contender, I swiped the red flag away with a strong backhand. Get off my court, doubt!

“Carissa.” His large hand gave my shoulder a squeeze as he leaned forward and kissed my cheek. “You’re even more beautiful than your picture,” he delivered the line with a practiced ease.

With a smile from the other side of the bar, the bartender asked, “What can I get you?”

“A Bloody Mary.”

“How spicy do you like it,” he inquired, sliding a glass out of the rack above his head.

“With a good kick.” Realizing he was going to be making the drink for me, I was immediately disappointed as I had thought this was the Make-Your-Own place.

Turning to Matthew, “This isn’t the Bloody Mary bar place?”

“Ah no, ah,” he stammered for a moment. “I couldn’t get a reservation there.”

The first sip delivered the necessary relaxation potion so that I was able to do more than just stare at this handsome man.

“Do you have a good dentist?” I asked and he cracked up, knowing the story of my dentist’s boundary breach.

“Actually I do and she’s in the city on 32nd and 3rd.”

“I like that. I work on Madison Avenue so that’s doable and a woman might be a very nice change.” His blue eyes were not looking at me.

“Dude, up here.” I pointed to my eyes. The scoop neck on my shift dress was not that low.

His smile had a sneer quality to it, “Carissa, it is hard to focus on anything but how I’d like to be touching you.” Reaching out, he ran two fingers along the inside of my bare upper arm. The pressure was focused inward, so while it looked like he was gently stroking my arm, that is not at all what he was doing. This time he looked me directly in the eyes, challenging me and knowing that I wanted to gasp and clench my thighs and yet, with lips slightly parted, I remained silent.

With his free hand, Matthew signaled the bartender for another round of drinks. I was already feeling the first cocktail on my empty stomach and I knew the second was about to obliterate me.

Chomping on my drink’s celery stalk, “No jumbo shrimp,” I mumbled.

Matthew sneered again, “I’d much rather see that piece of celery disappear down your throat.”

“You got me here under false pretenses, you know that.” Pointing the remainder of my celery stalk at him, I stared into his beautiful, pale eyes, unable to read them or get a handle on him. “So, what is it you are looking for, Matthew?” The vodka was making me bold.

“Someone I can have fun with. Someone who can just go with the flow.” His fingers were back on my upper arm, this time he let his thumb stray to stroke my breast.

Leaning forward, both to hide what he was doing to me and to let him get a good look inside my dress’ neckline, just to f*ck with him, I spoke low so that he would have to listen, “You remind me of this underwear I used to have.”

“Underwear?”

“Mmm-hmm. They had days of the week on them. I think you probably have women for each day of the week and labeled underwear might really be helpful for you.”

Matthew straightened in his seat, letting out a guttural laugh. “So what day are you?”

“Well obviously, Sunday.” I took another healthy sip from my Bloody Mary, reaching the bottom of the glass. Once again Matthew signaled for the waiter to bring another round.

“So are you wearing your Sunday undies?”