He smiled. Mine was bigger.
“Okay, Megan,” he said to the waitress. “The lady will have the German Shepherd T-bone.”
A loud laugh sprang from my throat.
“What?” He feigned ignorance. “You seemed to like the Wagyu today. I figured we might as well stick with canine.”
“Uh…” the waitress drawled in disgust.
I laughed again. Real. Honest. Laughter.
And I felt it all the way down to the core of my soul.
That was the exact moment I should have realized Porter Reese was dangerous.
But I was too lost in his sultry eyes and his heart-stopping smile to give it a second thought.
For two hours, Porter and I talked, using actual words. And not a single one of them destroyed me. They were light and fun but no less life changing. It had been too long since I’d allowed myself a night like that. I turned my cell phone off, drank wine, and had a fantastic meal with an incredible man.
Porter kept his end of the bargain. He didn’t ask questions or cast any judgments.
And I kept mine by not faking a single smile. I didn’t need to. My cheeks were aching before I’d finished my salad.
For those two hours, the world kept spinning, only this time, I wasn’t frozen in place or sprinting to keep up.
Porter and I spun together.
At the end of the night, after a giant piece of chocolate cake with two forks and two cups of coffee, he walked me to my car.
Not surprisingly, he held my hand the whole way.
Definitely surprisingly, he brushed his lips against mine in an all too brief kiss.
And then, as I climbed into my car and waved at him from the wrong side of the windshield, that warmth didn’t just wash over me—it consumed me.
* * *
Porter: Did you make it home safely?
Me: I did. I just got into bed actually.
Porter: Funny you should mention that…how do you feel about tacos?
Me: In bed?
Porter: What? No! We’ve been on two dates. Do I look easy to you?
Me: You just said “Funny you should mention that…how do you feel about tacos?” After I said I just got into bed.
Porter: Ohhhh…see I thought you said, “I just got a burrito actually.”
Me: Uh…I typed it. I didn’t say it.
Porter: Fine! I didn’t have a good transition from bed to see if you wanted to go have tacos with me tomorrow.
I laughed and rolled to my side, kicking the covers off to combat the new warmth coursing through my veins.
Me: I don’t know. If you count the Spring Fling, that’s like four dates in two days.
Porter: I know. You can’t get enough of me. Don’t worry. I find it endearing.
Me: Well, that’s a relief.
Porter: Okay. Okay. You don’t need to beg. Yes, I’ll have tacos with you tomorrow at noon. I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a guy who can get us reservations at Taco Bell.
I smiled so wide I feared it would split my face.
Me: I knew dating a restaurateur would have its perks.
Porter: What can I say? I’m quite a catch. Now, say yes to lunch.
Me: Why are you always trying to force me into having meals with you?
Porter: Because if I left our dates up to you, we’d be eating tacos in bed. That’s at least a sixth-date kind of activity. Slow down there, Mills.
My laugh echoed off the bare walls of my bedroom. Closing my eyes, I sucked in a breath and sank deep into my bed.
Me: You’re right. My mind was clearly in the Mexican gutter. My deepest heartfelt apologies.
Porter: Forgiven. Listen, I just got a text from my guy who knows a guy who knows a guy and unfortunately Taco Bell is fully booked for tomorrow. However, he was able to get us a table for two at Antojitos.
Antojitos wasn’t your average restaurant—it was an experience. The whole place was decorated like a quaint road in Mexico, and waiters wandered around dressed as street vendors offering a plethora of authentic Mexican fare. Every day, the menu was different, but people raved about it. It was always delicious. They didn’t take reservations, so there was usually a line wrapped around the block.
Me: That’s not fair. You can’t tease a girl with Taco Bell and then try to use Antojitos as a sad second choice.
Porter: I know. I know. And to make it up to you, I’d be willing to eat your tacos in bed on our FIFTH date.
Porter: Also…I JUST realized how filthy that sounded. I swear I didn’t mean it like that.
I barked a laugh and paused my fingers over my keyboard when I saw the text bubble pop up. He was typing again.
Porter: I mean…unless you did. In which case, we can do tacos in bed any time you’d like.
Porter: Unless you were talking about real tacos, in which case the crumbs sound like a nightmare.
Porter: Actually, can you do me a favor and delete the last four messages from me without reading them? M’kay thanks.
Tears—actual tears—were in my eyes. I was laughing that hard.
Porter: Christ. Why aren’t you responding now?
Me: Because it’s more fun to watch you sweat.
Porter: Are you laughing?
Me: Yep.
Porter: That makes it almost worth the embarrassment.
Yeah. Okay. We were talking about eating tacos in bed (which was only slightly less horrifying than sitting on the same side of the booth), but I’ll be damned if that warmth didn’t fill me again.
Me: Antojitos sounds amazing. I have to swing by my office in the morning, so I’ll meet you there at noon.
Porter: Sounds good. Sleep tight.
Me: You too.
I sighed all dreamy-like and started to put my phone down on the nightstand, but the text bubble showed up again. I waited. And waited some more. Boring holes into my phone for at least three minutes until finally his message appeared.
Porter: Confession: I wish I would have kissed you tonight.
My heart stopped and my stomach dipped as I read it three times before finding the courage to reply.
Me: You did.
Porter: No. Not like that. I’m talking about one where you’d spend the rest of your night touching your bruised lips, and I’d spend the rest of mine desperately trying to memorize the way you tasted.
My whole body came alive with a hum, from the tips of my fingers to my peaked nipples and everything in between. The sweet ache of arousal. I threw my head back against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. I’d been with men over the years. After all, sex was just as much about biology as it was about emotion. But, when the orgasm faded, so did my interest in the other person. Looking back on those encounters, I remembered the release—the brief moments when I’d allowed myself to let go and actually feel something with another person. But not once in ten years had I remembered being kissed. I’m positive it had happened, but it hadn’t been enough to trigger a memory.
Yet there I was, staring at a text describing a kiss that hadn’t happened, but I knew without a shadow of a doubt I’d never forget it.
Me: Confession: I wish you would have done that too.
Porter: Tomorrow, Charlotte.
It was a promise.
One I had every intention of letting him keep.
I spent the morning in the office, catching up on the mountain of paperwork I’d let pile up while I’d been trudging through in the hell of March seventh. I was so behind that it was a wonder I could see over the top of my inbox. By ten thirty, I was still drowning in files, but I could at least see my desk, so I chalked it up as a win and called it a day. The paperwork could wait; Porter would not. Well, I mean, he probably would have, but I didn’t want him to. Or, more accurately, I didn’t want to have to wait to see him.
I’d barely locked the door to the office when my phone started ringing in my hand. Rita’s name flashed on the screen, reminding me that I needed to have a nice long chat with her about her taking another stab at the matchmaker game.
“Just the person I need to talk to,” I answered.
“And hello to you too,” she replied in her typical sugary-sweet tone. “What are you up to this fine Sunday morning?”
Wedging the phone between my shoulder and my ear, I opened the door to my car and climbed inside. “Leaving the office.”
“Well, that sucks.”
“Meh. I’m caught up for the most part. So at least it was productive. Which is more than I’m going to be able to say for the next few days while I’m off burying your body.”