All the Right Moves(23)
He felt as though he’d won something big. First the kiss, and now this? “Tomorrow is good. I’ll be there.”
“Cassie,” Tommy yelled across the room. “Two more gin and tonics.”
Her gaze became a glare. “I will remain calm,” she muttered. “I will not strangle him. At least not in front of witnesses.”
“If I had a nickel for every time my sister said that about me...”
“You mean, you’re not perfect?”
“Not by a mile.” He stood, shoved his stool under the lip of the bar. He wanted to get the hell out of there before she could change her mind. She might not call it a date, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be the start of something great.
She headed for the gin bottle. He hurried to the door. One last look behind him found her watching him leave. He nodded. She ducked her head and poured.
6
TRAFFIC WAS BAD and normally John wouldn’t have suffered the bottleneck so graciously, but he was early to pick up Cassie, so he could afford to be patient. He’d mapped out her address and had a good idea where he was going. If he had to wait in the car until six-thirty, so be it.
Cassie O’Brien. He thought back to his college days, to the women he’d dated or more recent hookups, whether arranged by friends’ wives or after a night of club-hopping, and he couldn’t think of anyone like her. Not even close. She was unique, all right, and refreshing. She spoke her mind, wasn’t obsessed about her appearance and yet, every time he looked at her, he liked what he saw. A lot.
He turned down her street, surprised to see a lineup of apartment buildings. Her address was in his top pocket and he pulled it out for another look. She hadn’t given him a unit number. Damn. Had she done that on purpose? No, that made no sense. He knew where she worked.
Slowing to a crawl, he systematically checked each building address. When he got to the end of the street he saw a trio of duplexes, all painted tan but each with its own number. The first one on the left was Cassie’s. There was a Ford four-door parked in the driveway. The car had to be over fifteen years old and looked like something Stephen King might use for a character.
He parked at the curb with eight minutes to spare. With the air-conditioning on he listened to an old Van Morrison CD while he checked out her neighborhood. Very blue-collar, clean, neat, with obvious pride taken in the small lawns and flower beds. Cassie’s grass had recently been mowed and a large pot of yellow and pink flowers sat on the porch.
At six twenty-eight he knocked on the front door. It needed a fresh coat of paint. He saw a curtain move and then heard the doorknob turn.
“Hey,” she said, swinging the door open and stepping back. Her hair was down, bouncing in loose curls around her shoulders. “Come in.”
“Hi.” He stared at her shorts, jeans that had been chopped off, leaving the hem frayed. Man, she had a great pair of legs.
“The place is kind of a mess. I didn’t have a chance to organize the chaos by the time I got home,” she said, gesturing him to the left. “But the kitchen is okay.”
“You just got home?”
“About an hour ago.” Her pink tank top didn’t meet the waistband of her shorts, leaving an inch of tanned skin exposed. “You have any trouble finding me?”
He smiled at her bare feet and bright red toenails. “No.”
“I should’ve told you I live in a duplex.” She gave his gray slacks a quick frown then took the lead. “What would you like to drink? I have beer, iced tea, orange juice and possibly a couple cans of cola.”
John took a look at her tanned legs from the rear and forgot the question. “Uh, what was that?” He followed her through a small room with a floral couch, a black sling-back canvas chair and two tables covered with books. Textbooks. Plants were everywhere, not the decorative artificial variety, but overgrown ferns and glossy-leaved vines that seemed determined to take over the house.
Only a Formica counter crowded with more plants and books separated the room from a tiny galley kitchen. A pair of tall stools sat on the living room side in front of two place mats. A toaster, microwave and blender took up most of the space between the stove and wall on the opposite counter.
Cassie stood at an old white refrigerator that was covered in snapshots and magnets. “What will it be? Oh, I’ve also got wine. Chardonnay.”
“Thanks, but I was hoping to convince you to let me take you out for dinner. You’ve been working hard lately.” He checked out the title of one of the books on the counter. Something about neurology. “And I’m guessing it’s not made easier by the fact that you’re a student?”