揝o tell me about this guy,?he continues, turning his head my way. 揑 mean, aside from the things I can already deduce: that he shares a two-bedroom with four other men, and still drives his mom抯 2005 Honda.?
揧ou抳e clearly never watched a Hallmark movie. Chefs live in cute cottages, either on the beach or in the mountains, with a small herb garden in front. Everyone knows this.?
He rises from his seat and moves into the aisle. 揑抦 gonna go out on a limb and say you don抰 know a lot of real-life chefs.?He reaches up, pulls off his tie, and then begins unbuttoning his shirt.
That抯 when any shred of restraint inside me卐vaporates.
揥hat the hell are you doing??I demand. 揟his isn抰 your weekend Chippendales?show.?
揋emma, it抯 three hundred degrees in here. I抳e got a t-shirt on under this. You抣l live.?
He peels off the shirt, and I divert my eyes away from his very, very nice biceps, his smooth and surprisingly tan forearms卆nd they fall to his belt.
Then they fall lower, which is when I think about the elevator.
I felt it. He抯 large. Too large. It would be irritating, having to deal with that thing nestled up against me every morning and night.
揑f our positions were reversed, I抎 be complaining to HR right now,?he says.
Shit.
揑 have no idea what you抮e talking about,?I reply, quickly looking away.
He closes the overhead bin and takes the seat beside me again. 揑 practically watched your thoughts scroll across your face and they were surprisingly filthy. I抦 not sure I could even say them aloud.?
I press my thighs together, feeling breathless. It抯 probably the heat. 揅onsidering most of the women you date don抰 read yet, I figured you抎 be better at talking.?
揜eally??he asks, his mouth twitching. He closes his eyes, pressing his fingers to his temples like he抯 a psychic. 揝o, I see you in a room, and厀ow, you really want me to put my tongue there? I mean, I don抰 know. I抳e never done that before.?
I roll my eyes. 揧ou do seem like the type who wouldn抰 have done much with his tongue.?
揑抳e done plenty, Gemma,?he says, his gaze on my mouth, his voice so gravelly that I have to swallow to get the air moving through my throat. He sits back in his seat and closes his eyes again. 揂nyway, I didn抰 say no to that really surprising梐nd some might say unsanitary梩hing you want me to do. I抦 just saying it抯 a big step this early on. I normally start with the regular stuff first.?
揇o you even get to the regular stuff, or can you not wait that long before you dismember the body??
His mouth twitches. 揘ow you抮e trying to get me worked up.?
I laugh, hating myself for it. On the intercom, the airline attendant announces we抳e been cleared for takeoff, and that抯 probably for the best. I don抰 need any more time spent considering whether I could be friends梠r more梬ith Ben Tate. I shut the window shade and close my eyes, quietly praying that Thomas the chef sweeps me off my feet so I never have to consider this question again.
I meet Thomas梬ho apparently goes by Tad梐t a bar in North Hollywood.
His hair was short in the photo but is longer in real life, pulled back in a small ponytail. I抦 fine with this, but he does not exude the calm authority I抎 hoped for. He抯 one of those twitchy guys whose free hand drums on the table constantly, as if he抯 nervous or bored or fresh out of cocaine.
I tell him I抦 a lawyer, hoping he will then ask if I抦 fulfilled. Maybe he抣l get me talking about some secret interest of mine and suggest a change in careers. If I was someone who liked to bake, for instance, he抎 encourage me to open a cupcake shop in his quaint little home town. If I was an artist, he抎 convince me to start selling my work and he抎 have a studio on his property that I was free to use. But I can抰 paint, and baking seems like a waste of time, so I抦 counting on Tad to come up with something better.
揑 bet you make bank,?he says instead. Not quite what I was hoping for.
We talk about our interests. Mine include long walks at sunset, which is something I plan to like in the future, and work. His include fantasy football, 揹ank memes?and Xbox.
Our love was written in the stars.
I offer to pay the bill and he enthusiastically accepts. This also does not happen in Hallmark movies, where the men are old-fashioned and insist on holding doors and paying tabs, ignoring the heroine抯 weak feminist protest.
As we leave, he asks if I want to hang out, which I assume is a euphemism for something more naked. 揧our place is probably better,?he adds. 揂ll my roommates are home.?
For a moment, despite how consistently disappointing Tad is, I consider it. My libido has been like a furnace at peak temperature for a full day now at least. But I can only picture overeager fumbling and awkwardness, a sweaty pale torso covered in idiotic tattoos梐 Tasmanian Devil waving a rebel flag or a cartoon character peeing on a car梥o I tell him I抳e got to get to bed.