Fluffy(47)

“What?” Philippe asks, playing along.

He points at Will and narrows his eyes. “That he,” Dancy says with a flourish, finger now pointing skyward as if getting God Almighty’s attention, “hasn’t asked the beautiful Mallory out on a date.”

I die.

I die right there.





13





My legs work unbelievably well for someone who is dead.

I flee. This day is too much.

Even I have a limit.

My purse is conveniently on a chair by the door, and in a gazelle-like feat of grace, I loop my arm through the handle and crash through the doors to the outside, hearing Dancy shout, “Was it something I said?” in the distance.

The parking lot is a blur. My electronic key won’t work. I stare at it, dumb, with a head full of buzzing bees all trying to find their way out through my corneas, until I realize I’ve unlocked the trunk twenty times. I walk to the back, slam it shut, and successfully press the right button to open the driver's door.

“Mallory.” Will’s at my side as the lock clicks open, his hand on my shoulder, his scent unmistakable.

“Yes?” I can’t look up. Looking into his eyes means he’ll see my need. It’s like the parking lot at the high school ten years ago. I can’t relieve that.

Especially not now.

“Don’t go home. Not yet. Come with me.”

“To the office? For that meeting? You want me to work now?”

“No, not there.”

“I already ate dinner before the dance lesson, Will, and I’m feeling really embarrassed, truth be told. Being stood up on a date is bad enough. Being used as a conversion target to meet someone’s sales metrics feels even dirtier.” I’m about to add all the Dancy stuff when he interrupts me.

“You don’t deserve to feel dirty.” His voice drops. “Unless you want to.”

My eyebrows shoot up and I can’t stop myself from turning around and looking up at him. “What do you want, Will?” I ask, the words inadequate but better than waffling on the inside, over-interpreting and analyzing every word out of his mouth.

His warm, sensual, alluring mouth.

“Something sweet.” Grasping my hand, he pulls me back to the sidewalk. In order to get my attention, that simple tug would be enough. From a utilitarian standpoint, he should let go of my hand now.

Now.

Definitely now.

He doesn't let go.

We’re walking hand in hand down the sidewalk, in public, downtown, on our way to– “Where are we going?” I ask, my hand starting to sweat, every bit of skin on fire.

He makes a left turn toward a little nook of shops, squeezing once.

“You’ll see.”

Lovers entwine their fingers. We’re palm in palm, which means nothing, right? Like kids, like siblings. He’s just holding my hand so he can guide me down the remarkably well-lit streets of this neighboring town, streets and sidewalks I know like the back of my hand.

A hand that Will Lotham has commandeered.

Stop it, Mal! I shout in my head, willing my inner fourteen-year-old to shut up. If I could give her a box of Oreos, that would do the trick.

We stop in front of a small hipster restaurant known for avocados and saffron and maple, sometimes in the same dish. It’s the kind of place filled with exposed brick walls, painted ductwork, and an open kitchen where you can sit at a counter and watch your food being made.

Will leads me in.

Within a minute, we’re seated at a table and I look at him, deeply confused.

“What are we doing here?”

A very chipper waitress comes over, hands us menus, and begins listing what sounds like every food banned by paleo diets around the world. I’m pretty sure half the internet diet forums view this place as Ground Zero in the PUFA Wars.

“And we have espresso-based drinks with any liquor you want. Can I get you a macchiato?” she asks me. “Decaf?”

“A triple. I’ll take a triple regular macchiato made with heavy cream.”

Her satisfied grin says she upsold me nicely. “And the regular for you?” she asks Will, who just nods.

“Bring us a sampler,” he adds as she leaves. She flashes him a saucy grin that is either flirting or teasing him for being here on a date.

Which this isn’t.

Which means she’s flirting.

Which suddenly pisses me off.

“Sampler?” I ask.

“It’s a small plate of every dessert on the menu.”

Could he be any more perfect? What man orders that?

“Why dessert?” I snap at him, torn between being pissed and falling deeper in love.

“You told me you never make it to dessert on your dates. I wanted to change your luck.”

Silence fills the space between us, heavy like air before a rainstorm, what happened back at Bailargo hovering like dark clouds.

“Here you go!” The server–whose name tag I refuse to read because in my mind that makes her important and gives her energy to flirt more with Will and I’m not handing out my energy like that, thank you very much–sets my triple macchiato next to me, and a caramel-colored soda with two slices of lime on the rim in front of Will. She returns quickly with a small platter of pastries and chocolate that looks so delicious. I need to find the chef and offer up an ovary or something.