The Dating Proposal(28)

“And here’s the yellow.” He keeps his ring finger against mine, playing the yellow note. His scent floods my nostrils. The muscles on his arms bump up against my softer parts. His lips near my neck, so incredibly close, are thrilling.

I feel. Dear God, do I feel.

I feel a zing and a zip and a whole lot of tingles and shivers.

I want to lean into him. I want him to wrap his arms around me and hold me tighter as he teaches me to play. I want contact. I want it so badly, I don’t know how I’ll ever play a song because I am living and breathing only one thing right now—the wish to be closer to him, my back curved against his front, his arms wrapped tight around me, our bodies entwined. I’m a tuning fork, vibrating hotly from his touch.

“What you want is to feel the notes, not look at them.”

I played arcade games for fun when I was a kid, and for release when I was left curbside by my ex. But I never imagined video games as foreplay. Here with Chris, every single second feels like a slow burn. Like we’re giving in to whatever flirtation we’ve been having. Like he’s going to turn me around, place his hands on my cheeks, and pull me in for a kiss, the kind that makes the world fall away.

Is that how he’d kiss? Like my sailboat in the moonlight?

He leans in even closer and whispers in my ear, “You can open your eyes now and play.”

I inhale deeply and let my eyes float open. I feel wobbly from the way he’s touched me, from the way I’ve let my thoughts spin into a dark and dangerous place of possibility.

I press start on Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me.” I hit the green notes, then the red notes, then the yellow ones. Then the next set and the next. I even nail a long note, then another, then a whole sequence of star-power notes, and I give in to the game. I channel all my desire into the playing, and I’m jamming here, the pseudo-music taking my mind off the fact that I want Chris to talk dirty to me.

The last note sounds, and the crowd on the screen goes wild. I raise my hands in the air. Victory. A thrill rushes through me. “I rock!”

Chris smiles big and wide, the teacher proud of his student. “Fast learner are you,” he says in Yoda’s voice.

“You’re a Star Wars geek too.”

“You know it,” he says proudly. “You want to play some more?”

I nod vigorously and then spend the next hour knocking out several more songs and even making it through my very first guitar battle, where I own the guitarist from Rage Against the Machine after two tries. By the time we turn off the game, I’m feeling pretty energized, and I also don’t want this time with him to end.

I draw on my newfound mantra: put yourself out there.

It’s not a date I’m about to suggest.

But even so, I go for it with gusto. “Do you want to grab a bite to eat? There’s a great taco shop around here. I don’t know if the quesadillas are orgasmic, but some might say they’re swoon-worthy.”

He grins, and it lights up his face. “Let’s go get some swoon-worthy quesadillas.”

I take him to a hole-in-the-wall taqueria with orange Formica booths and countertops and a menu that’s half-English, half-Spanish. We order chicken quesadillas to share, and he asks if I want a Diet Coke.

My eyes widen. “It’s like you’re speaking my secret language.”

He taps his temple. “I listen, woman. I definitely listen.”

He turns back to the woman at the counter and orders two sodas.

“I can’t let you caffeinate alone,” Chris says to me.

“How gallant of you to join me in the caffeination quest.”

The woman gives us the cans and glasses, and we carry them to the table.

After we sit, he slides one can toward me. Then the second one. His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Would you like to open both cans?”

I squeal inside with delight. “You, sir, are a gallant knight indeed.” I sigh forlornly. “But I can’t. I want you to enjoy the fun too.”

He lifts a brow. “Let’s do it together.”

And like the dorks that we are, we crack open our cans at the same time, chuckling as we take our first sip, then pour them into glasses.

“So, have you always been a knight in shining armor?” I ask, keeping up with our little routine.

“Sir Galahad McCormick—that’s what they called me in high school.”

“Speaking of, where’d you grow up? You have to be a California native. You’ve mastered the whole dark-blond-and-beautiful look.”

There’s that smile again. Magnetic and adorable. “Beautiful?”

“Oh please. I’ve already complimented you fifty ways to Friday since the day we met. You’re hot. There. Full stop.”

He tilts his head, staring at me as if he’s drinking me in. “You’re beautiful. Full stop.”

My heart trampolines in my chest, and a smile threatens to take over my whole face. Before I start tap-dancing and singing in the rain, he picks up the thread.

“I’m from Brooklyn, of all places, but I hate the cold, so I got the hell out of town for college.”

“Where was that? When you double-majored,” I add, so he knows I definitely listen too.

“I went to Stanford.”

“Stanford?” My jaw drops. “You went to Stanford?”