The Dating Proposal(27)

He shakes a finger at me. “I expect nothing, Turkey Legs. That way I’m pleasantly surprised when I get anything.”

I jump in, explaining his ways to McKenna. “By the way, a nickname means he likes you.”

“Then I’m happy to be known as Pumpkin Pie and to keep working with you, Turkey Legs. Also, nice to meet you, Bruce,” McKenna chimes in.

“It’s a complete delight to meet you,” Bruce says, then turns to me. “By the way, I heard from Zander Kendrick’s manager. Says he’d be up for an interview soon. He’ll call you to set it up.”

I pump a fist, then look at McKenna. “Zander Kendrick is a game designer. I’ve been trying to get an interview with him for ages.”

“That’s awesome,” she says. “Good for both of you.”

Bruce tips his imaginary hat and exits. When he’s gone, she says, “I like him. He’s old-school and cool.”

“You like old-school?”

“I like hot new fashion and old retro tunes and meeting people in person. I’m eclectic.”

“Let’s go play an old game in person, then,” I say, and usher her out of the studio, grateful that my time with her isn’t ending.

And hopeful, too, that the time ahead is as good as all the other times with her have been.





18





McKenna





In the game room at the store, Chris hands me a black plastic guitar. I strap it over my shoulder, and my neckline slides. Darn it. I fiddle with the hemline, pulling it back into place.

Chris moves in closer, whispering, “Nice try. It’s only slightly distracting when you do that.”

I hide a wild grin at the compliment, even as hot tingles sweep down my arms. “Far be it from me to distract my tutor.”

He shoots me a grin that’s equal parts sexy and sweet.

Chris turns on the Xbox and hits the on button on my guitar.

The game whirs on—a dark-pink mountaintop set against a black night sky appears on the gigantic television screen hanging on the wall in front of us. Chris moves closer to me and taps a few buttons on my guitar to click past various screens. His nearness is heady, and he smells like sunshine and ocean breezes.

I bet he tastes like sunshine and his hair feels like a warm breeze.

Since I haven’t played in a while, we review the basics, how to play the green, red, and yellow notes on the easy level of the game. How to hit them at just the right time. How to hit the strum bar at the same time too. I butcher my way through “Slow Ride” and “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” getting booed by the virtual audience and tossed offstage. I dig in like a batter at the plate; eyes fixed on the screen; feet planted firmly; index, middle, and ring fingers poised over the keys. Chris walks behind me, adjusts the strap a bit, moving the guitar a little lower. His right hand hovers over mine, flipping my concentration upside down and inside out. I’m not used to this feeling, electricity meets longing, and I don’t know what to do with it either. The last time I felt this way was in another lifetime, when Todd and I were planning a wedding and a future together.

For a sliver of a moment, I’m back in time, remembering our relationship. Todd was the same in those last few months as he was when I met him—charming, funny, philosophical. There were no signs, no indication that his eye would wander, that his heart would leap over the fence and run away without even waving goodbye.

The only sign, I suppose, was his Diet Coke trickery. He knew about my first sip fixation, but he would always ruin it for me by opening the can himself and taking a hit with a devilish little smirk.

But if that was it, how can I read anything into anything? Or something into nothing?

That’s why I can’t trust signs.

Or feelings.

Or flirtations.

It’s safer to date for fun.

And this right now? This is fun.

Even though it’s not a date, not a date, not a date.

“Okay, you want my top tip?”

At Chris’s question, I return to the present. And this is where I want to be. Here, with this wickedly handsome man whose hands are on mine, whose body is behind me, and whose lips are near my ear.

“I do,” I say, a little more breathlessly than I expected.

“This may sound cheesy, but the real key is to let go. Let go of the need to check where your hands are or to look constantly at the neck of the guitar. Can you let go?”

I want to let go with you. Give me your top tip for that. Show me how that feels. “I’ll try.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Close my eyes?” My tone is tight, a little nervous.

“Yes, close your eyes. I know it’s going to be really hard for you not to be in control for one second, but trust me.”

“Oh, ha ha,” I tease. But the thing is, I do trust him. That awareness hits me out of the blue, but it’s a fully-formed realization. I trust him. “I trust you,” I whisper, as I close my eyes.

“Good. That’s what I need,” he replies, his voice soft and a little tender. “Try to feel where your fingers are. Here’s the green note.” He places his finger down on top of my index finger, playing the green note.

Sparks zip down my chest.

“Here’s the red.” He presses his middle finger against mine, playing the red note now, and the pleasure ricochets through my body, on a mad dash to fill me with silver-and-gold sensations, all from his touch.