Why?
Probably to keep his stupid office. He’s a selfish bastard.
Yeah, an evil little voice whispers in my ear, because it’s notorious for selfish bastards to spend their weekends driving someone else’s kid to Boston so they can meet their father.
Selfish or not, he’s still a bastard.
The cab pulls up in front of the restaurant. I pay the driver and step on the curb, pulling the hem of my skirt down. Time to meet Roger. We’re going to share a wonderful dinner and, at the end of the night, he’s going to kiss me so passionately he’ll make Lucas’ pathetic little smooch pale in comparison.
Roger would have to be a pretty stunning kisser to one-up Lucas, the same evil voice comments.
Oh, shut up.
Inside the restaurant, the hostess informs me I’m the first to arrive, and leads me to a table set for three.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “There must be a mistake; I should be at a table for two.”
The hostess checks her folder. “Is the reservation under Chapman?”
“Yes,” I confirm.
“Then I have a reservation at 7:30 for three.”
“Never mind,” I say, and sit down.
The person who took the reservation must’ve written down the wrong number, but it’s no big deal. They can clear the extra set of plates when Roger arrives. Tall, blond, with warm brown eyes, he’s an architect and exactly the kind of man I should date: gentle, charming, polite, doesn’t yell at strangers, and I’m sure he’s never ambush-kissed anyone in his entire life.
Roger arrives a few minutes later, and I stand up to greet him. We hug. My nostrils fill with his scent, and I can’t help but think the smell is wrong. Nothing foul, just the wrong scent.
And what would be the right scent? that same pestering voice asks.
Sandalwood and pine trees, I reply automatically, thinking of Lucas’ cologne.
Oh, heck no. See? This is what he wanted: to get inside my head.
I will not think about Shrek or the way he kisses or smells.
I. Will. Not.
Whatever you need to tell yourself, the pesky voice taunts.
As Roger and I pull apart, I show him our table, saying, “The restaurant must’ve gotten your reservation wrong; they gave us a table for three.”
“Oh, no, that’s right,” he says, nonchalant. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
For the first time, I notice a short woman in her middle fifties/early sixties lurking behind Roger. She’s dressed in a conservative pastel pink tweed suit. On a Project Runway episode, the judges would describe her outfit as matronly. And that’s exactly how she looks with her pearl earrings and necklace, heavy makeup, and chin-length, red curls so thoroughly hair-sprayed they don’t move when she does.
Roger steps aside and makes the introduction. “Vivian, I wanted you to meet my mother, Ursula Chapman. Mom, this is Vivian.”
I shake the woman’s hand, and while she sits at our table, I whisper in Roger’s ear, “You brought your mother to our second date?”
“Yeah,” he replies, not even trying to keep his tone low. “I told you I valued my mom’s opinion.”
Um, not exactly. On our previous date, I mentioned my recent troubles with Tegan and school, and he said kids should always listen to their mothers. From that deceivingly innocent comment, I didn’t imagine that, to him, the concept also applied to adults well past thirty.
Still standing and whispering, I ask, “And why is your mother joining us, exactly?”
Roger grabs my hands. “Vivian, I had a wonderful time with you on our first date, but before things can move forward in our relationship, I need to know we’re compatible. I mean, what if we kept dating, and then Mom didn’t approve of you?”
What, indeed, I comment silently in my head, having a Charlotte on Sex and the City moment.
Roger must misinterpret the look on my face, because he adds, “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll pass the test with flying colors.”
I inwardly scoff. Pity you just failed on all counts, Roger dear.
And I’m in for one miserable dinner—no Lucas to distract me this time.
As I sit down with a tight smile, I make two terrifying realizations. First, I went on a date with the new Norman Bates, and enjoyed myself so much I’d agreed to a rematch. And second, I’m inexplicably relieved things won’t work out with Roger.
Why?
I will not think about that kiss.
Twenty-two
Lucas
I didn’t rest well last night. It took me hours to fall asleep, tossing and turning in bed, tormented by images of Vivian on her stupid date. And when I finally passed out, she invaded my dreams, making my slumber none the more restoring. She truly put a spell on me.
By morning, I’m so tired I don’t hear the alarm go off, and am only waking up now because Max, my rescue Jack Russell terrier, is gently licking my cheek.
My eyes fly open, and I roll over to check the bedside clock. Whoops, I’m an hour late for his usual bathroom run.
I scratch him behind the ears, saying, “Sorry, buddy, give me just a minute and we’ll be out.”
No time for a run, but I still have to walk Max.
As if sensing I could use a bit of male solidarity, Max gives me another small lick and drops his muzzle on my shoulder, whining.
“Thank you, buddy, but no, nothing you can do. I need to sort this out myself.”
As the day progresses, my mental status doesn’t improve. I spend the first hour at the office tensely listening for any sound outside and relax and tense simultaneously when I finally hear the click-clack of Vivian’s heels on the landing. Is that the walk of a woman coming back from a wonderful date, or from a lousy kisser? I’m no Louboutin whisperer, so I’ve no way of telling.
The need to know what happened last night with Roger keeps haunting me so much that, at lunch, I call Garrett and ask him if he’s in the mood for a drink after work. If anyone can give
