The small blessing in my day is that my store is busy. I don’t get a single chance to scroll on my phone or stress about Dax because every time I ring through a customer order, a new one appears. So at ten after seven, when the little bell chimes as my front door opens, I’m caught off guard to see Dax standing there in a pair of tight-fitting black jeans and a white button-down shirt tailored perfectly to showcase the lean lines of his body.
Oh shit. This is definitely a date.
Dax never wears a button-down. He has three types of tops in his wardrobe that he chooses from based on the temperature outside: henleys for cool weather, T-shirts for when it’s warm, and tank tops for when there’s little chance of running into me, as I tend to be vocal about my feelings about tank tops on grown men.
I have never seen Dax in a button-down, and that scares me. It feels like I’m stepping into uncharted waters, unaware if anything below the surface bites. Undecided as to whether I want it to.
“You look nice,” I manage to croak out.
His eyes, I notice, are lingering on the laced V of my camisole. “That was my opening line. You ready to go?”
My store is a mess. I haven’t done any of my closing paperwork nor looked to see if my hair has any weird baby curls around the temples from running around all day—but I nod. “Yup, just let me grab my purse.” Future Gemma can deal with all of this tomorrow.
We’re headed to Hess Village, which is less of a village and more of an intersection of two cobblestone streets, lined mostly with pubs and bars at the west end of Hamilton’s downtown core. It’s a solid twenty-minute walk from James Street, but the night air is warm, and I have nervous energy to burn and best friends in dress shirts to analyze, so we opt to walk and save our hard-earned retail dollars for an Uber ride home later.
“How was the day?” I kick off the conversation, hating myself for asking such a lame question, but the button-down has thrown me so badly that I’m second-guessing everything.
Dax shrugs, running his fingers through his wavy hair, sending a whiff of his ocean-scented shampoo in my direction.
“It wasn’t as busy as I wanted it to be.” He sighs. “I don’t know if foot traffic is down or this just isn’t the year for custom sneakers, but it hasn’t been a great month. What about you?”
Now I’m not quite sure that I want to tell him that although I’ve only briefly glanced at Other Gemma’s forecast, my guess is that I’ve doubled my sales for the month. Instead, I go with an honest, “I had some very chatty customers today. It felt like I barely blinked before you showed up on my doorstep.”
Hess Village is bumping when we arrive, packed with a mix of the work crowd, still in their business casual, celebrating the end of another week, and the tight-jeaned, crop-topped party crowd, getting an early start to the weekend.
“What vibe are we going for tonight?” Dax points to one of the busy pubs. “The Pauper? Or the Duck?”
The Prince and Pauper is a brightly lit pub. It’s busy and loud, with live music and a street-facing patio that’s already packed.
The Laughing Duck is far more low-key. Dim lighting, spaced-out tables. Quiet. Romantic. Coltrane in the background.
“Let’s hit the Pauper. I’m in the mood for a cold beer.” And I’m panicking. The dress shirt has tripped me up. There’s an entire yarn ball of feelings rolling around inside me, and they’re way too tangled to figure out at this moment.
I don’t miss the brief look of disappointment that flashes across Dax’s face before he nods and replies, “Cool.” He leads the way to the patio, where the hostess tells us there’s a twenty-minute waitlist for a seat, but inside is a free-for-all. If we can find an empty table, it’s ours.
We head in and find that the indoor seating is almost as full as the outdoor. No empty tables, not even seats at the bar. I can practically sense Dax wanting to say, Why don’t we head to the Duck?
In sheer panic mode, I scan the room, hoping to chance across someone looking like they might be getting ready to leave. Instead, I spot two people making perfect eye contact and waving at me.
I have absolutely no idea who they are.
“Friends of yours?” Dax leans in, and I’m temporarily distracted by his warm breath on my neck, suddenly acutely aware of our proximity.
“Uh…I think so?” I squint my eyes, looking for further clues or clarity to their identities and finding nothing. “And it looks like they have room to spare.”