Definitely, Maybe in Love

“Woody Allen.”

“You know The Wood-Man?” He nudged my shoulder. “I might have to marry you.”

The light turned green, and we joined the queue of other crossers.

“Do you remember what happened on Alvie’s first date with Annie?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen it. Did Alvie forget his wallet? How typical.”

“They were bantering in that neurotic Woody Allen way,” Alex said, shooting me a sideways glance. “Kind of like we were doing the other night.” He took my hand and tucked it into the crock of his elbow. “Alvie said to Annie something like, ‘At the end of this date, I’ll want to kiss you, but it’ll be awkward and embarrassing from all the tension. So, why don’t we get it out of the way now while there’s no pressure.’”

“Clever,” I said.

Alex peered at me with that lazy smile he wore so well. “The thing is,” he said, raking a hand through his hair, so charmingly nervous, “I think I’ll be feeling some similar pressure at the end of our date.”

He stopped walking. So did I. It took two seconds for my mind to catch up to where his already was.

After correctly assessing my grin of agreement, Alex stepped up and placed a hand on my cheek. But then he paused and glanced around, inspecting all the people ambling down the sidewalk around us. The next thing I knew, he grabbed my hand and was pulling me away.

We walked very briskly next to each other for about five seconds, and I followed him around the corner to a parking lot. It was valet only and, aside from the dozen or so parked million-dollar vehicles, it was vacant.

Without a word, he grabbed my free hand and yanked me forward. There was barely time for me to giggle before the kissing began. His arms were strong around me, and his lips were soft on my lips and chin and neck. Just as he had done on the dance floor, his hands were on my hips, swaying me like we were moving to music. His mouth had a minty taste, not exactly toothpaste, something sharper.

Not that I was a prude, but even at the end of a date I would not have completely sucked face with a guy…and here it was the beginning of our first date. But for whatever reason, I wasn’t letting anything slow me down. I felt determined and a bit defiant, like I was trying to prove something to someone.

Plus, it had been a long, dry summer back in Coos Bay, Oregon. My mother spent most of June complaining about how my father had refused again to pay for any of my tuition. Not that I was surprised…I hadn’t expected anything from my father in years. My two brothers and I decided ages ago that the sooner we forgot about him, the better. The rest of the summer, Mom delved deeper into her crystals and tarot cards. My brothers came home for only one visit. I was working two full-time jobs, anyway—no time for dating or fun. Maybe that was why I was so into Alex’s kisses.

His hands slid to the small of my back, still rocking us to the beat of an unheard rhythm.

Julia had a theory about there being two kinds of kisses. The first kind of kiss is when you want to experience the purely physical pleasure of kissing. There can be heat and excitement and plenty of sparks during this first kind of kiss, but it’s mostly just doing whatever will bring personal gratification. These kisses are fun and freeing and preferably non-committal. The first kind of kiss is corporeal, touching only your body and the shallowest of senses, but never deep emotions, and never your soul or your heart.

What I was experiencing in that dimly lit parking lot was the first kind of kiss. Obviously so, since I was cognizant enough to realize that Alex was merely filling a physical desire and nothing more. My emotions, soul, and heart were all fully intact. Perfect.

According to Julia, however, there is a second kind of kiss. This kiss comes with a whole list of prerequisite regulations. There is commitment, caring, giving, sacrifice, compromise, relationship, and especially love. Apparently, all of the above-listed rules make the second kind of kiss something more magical and earth-shaking than even the steamiest first kind of kiss.

As Alex’s hands moved up and down my spine like I was his bass fiddle, I couldn’t imagine a thing like that were possible. But Julia did have her harebrained theories.

First kind or not, Alex was a great kisser. Very creative. I probably could have kept it up for the full fifteen minutes—that was usually my limit before I grew bored—but when a valet attendant tried to push past us to get into the blue SUV Alex had me pressed against, we pulled apart.

“Well, you’re full of surprises,” I said, a bit breathless.

He touched my chin with one finger, then ran it down my neck. “Want to go back to my place?”

“What?”

Almost as if he were snapping out of a trance, his intense expression dissolved and his lazy smile was back. “Come on, gorgeous.” He took my hand, linking my arm through his, and we walked out of the parking lot. “You pick the restaurant.”

“I can’t believe you stole your moves like that,” I said, thinking what a pervy beast Woody Allen must be in real life.

Alex laughed and shot me a sideways glance. “If that’s what gets your engines blazing, I’ll be sure to talk about Henry more often.” He put his hand over mine and squeezed.

Knightly? I almost tripped over my own feet. Why on earth would Alex be thinking about him? Or assuming that I would be thinking about him while we were kissing?

Chapter 7

“I’m sorry. No more empty tables.”

I moaned and glanced over the hostess’s shoulder at the unusually, overly packed cafe.

“It’s the rain,” she explained with a shrug. “No one wants to be outside.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, perturbed that all of Stanford apparently chose to eat at Oy Vey Cafe that morning.

“You can get your order to go,” she suggested, then pointed behind me at the dozen or so people already standing in line. I guessed that was my only option.

“She can join me.”

Henry Knightly was sitting at a small, round table by a fogged-up window, gesturing at the empty chair across from him.

“Is that okay?” the hostess asked me.

“Um, well…” I looked over my shoulder to the queue at the To Go counter. Had it doubled in the past five seconds?

“If not,” the hostess continued, “I could really use this chair at another—”

“She’s joining me.” He pushed out the chair with his foot. “Have a seat, Spring.”

“Jeez, be a caveman, why don’t you?” I muttered under my breath as I walked toward the table, confused, but cold and famished. Stupid rain.

I sat across from him, ordered my breakfast, and pulled a paperback from my bag, preparing to ignore our close proximity. Not that we were exactly strangers anymore. Classes had been in session for three weeks—I ran into him practically every day, though we usually didn’t speak. All those things Alex told me on our date were hard to forget. I didn’t trust this guy…I barely liked him.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

I peered at him from over the book I’d been using as a shield and lowered it an inch. “Huis Clos, suivi de Les Mouches,” I answered before flipping off the French-to-English switch in my head.

His eyebrows twitched. “Jean-Paul Sartre?”

I put in my bookmark and placed the paperback on the table next to my poppy seed muffin. “Are you taking French?”

“No, no.” He took a bite of the bagel in front of him. It had some kind of pink spread on it.

For some reason, I found that extremely odd. Was it strawberry? Henry Knightly ate strawberry cream cheese?