The Dating Proposal(38)
“Everything,” he says with a sheepish grin.
I shoot him a skeptical look. “Not possible.”
“No? You sure? Completely sure it’s not possible?”
I shoot him a look. “People say that when they don’t want to commit to a type.”
He raises a hand like he’s taking an oath. “Swear to God. I’m kind of a music whore. I’ll listen to rock; jazz; show tunes, thanks to my sister; indie; alt; blues; old standards. I love music in nearly all forms, especially live music. I’ve actually been to two hundred twenty-seven concerts in my life.”
I blink. “Wait. You count concerts?”
He nods proudly.
“You actually count?”
“I have a list on Google Keep of every concert I’ve ever been to.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s adorable and super geeky.” I clasp his cheek, stroking his five-o’clock stubble.
He leans into my hand. “It’s the engineer in me, McKenna. What can I say? I like to keep track of things.”
“I so need to get hold of your Google Keep lists.” I drop my hand, but I don’t disconnect from him. I set it on his leg, loving, no, adoring this freedom to touch him. It’s exhilarating. Like wearing skyscraper heels with death-defying confidence. Like changing your hair color without testing the look on an app.
“And for that, I’m keeping my desk under lock and key when you come over.”
“Hey, where do you live? You never told me.”
“It’s top secret. But I’ll let you in on it.” He drops his voice to a clandestine whisper. “Russian Hill. Corner of Polk and Green.”
“I love that neighborhood. There is a great little boutique a few blocks north on Polk Street where my sister took me shopping for my last birthday. She got me this bracelet, and then we had cupcakes, and I wear the bracelet with nearly everything because it reminds me how awesome she is. And how much I like having someone who loves cupcakes as much as I do.” I show him the delicate rose-gold chain on my wrist.
“Cupcakes are evidence of the existence of God. And your sister sounds fantastic.” Chris reaches, gently touching the bracelet. His fingertips graze the top of my hand as he moves along from my finger to my wrist, touching the metal. I am hypnotized by his touch, tugged into an orbit around him. His hands are strong and soft, and they make my skin warm all over, as if I’ve been lying in the sun, soaking in the delicious rays. He strokes the inside of my wrist briefly, but enough for a tiny whimper to escape my lips as my mind flashes forward to other things he might be able to do with his hands. I press my thighs together so I don’t grab him and test my theories in public.
But in private, later? I’ll be all over that.
“You know, McKenna,” he says, rubbing his thumb and forefinger along the rose-gold. “I like the way you dress. I noticed that about you the first time we met.”
“You did?” This delights me immeasurably.
“That time at the electronics store, the first thing I noticed was how hot you were.” He slides his hands up my arm, my hungry skin drinking in the wondrous sensation of his touch. “The second thing I noticed was you were funny. The third was that you were interesting. And the fourth thing I noticed was you had on this sexy outfit that kind of accentuated all the places I wanted to touch.”
I smile. Or maybe I beam, lit from head to toe. Because I don’t know which of those four things I like better—hot, funny, interesting, or stylish enough to be sexy. I like them all for different reasons, but I have to say he saved the best for last. He likes my style. He likes what makes me me, and that’s all I need to fall totally under his spell, body and heart.
“No one has ever said that to me,” I say as I linger on his eyes for a moment, his Hawaii eyes pools of green that stare intensely. He’s looking at me like he wants to strip me bare, and I desperately want that.
God, I hope fun-dating includes hot banging.
The waitress brings his drink. He takes a swallow, throws down some bills, and says, “Now, if memory serves, you once said you could take me down in Q*bert.”
I grin. “I did, didn’t I?”
“Are you still up for it?”
“Are you inviting me over?” I pray he says yes. Possibly even make offerings to the gods of banging.
“I believe I am.”
There is a goddess!
We are so civilized in the Lyft, I want to give us a medal. We hold hands in the back seat and exchange naughty looks. I touch his arm. He glides his fingers along my legs.
Okay, fine. We aren’t Goody Two-Shoes. He does try to slip that hand a little farther north.
But he catches himself, jerking his hand out of my skirt and setting it primly on my knee as the driver stops at a red light on Van Ness.
“I deserve a gold star for restraint, don’t you think?” He wiggles his eyebrows.
“Definitely. Do you have any stickers at your house? Maybe in that drawer next to your concert list?”
“Oh, mock me, why don’t you, for my analytical brain?”
I lean in closer and whisper in his ear, “It’s not your analytical brain I want tonight. It’s the dirty one.”
He shakes his head in appreciation. “You are on fire. And I’m going to have a field day with you.”