Alyssa Goodnight - Austentatious

“Is that what’s got you so nervy, then—the what-ifs?” he asked.

“You could say that.” Or you could say I was suffering a tragic crush on the completely wrong man and no one—best friend, mentee, fairy godmother, nary a lesbian neighbor—seemed willing to take my side. I unhooked the wedge of lime from my glass and squeezed it into my water, suddenly desperate for a distraction.

The waiter came to take our orders and left us to our deceptively casual silence. I couldn’t speak for Sean, but I for one was in a bit of a tizzy. I tried to relax and focus on the sombrero-topped mariachi trio as they wound their way through the tables, alternating between rousing instrumentals and sigh-invoking serenades. I barely even noticed my fingers fidgeting with a slit in the vinyl seat cover until I realized I needed to relocate my purse to cover the new tangerine-sized hole beside my hip.

“So what if ... you enjoy yourself tonight?” Sean prompted, sliding his finger slowly along the cold, wet condensation coating his water glass.

“No biggie,” I countered blithely. “Mexican food is a pretty sure thing for me.” I swirled my straw and watched the ice spin in circles.

“Fair enough. What if ... the Mexican food isn’t the best part of the evening?”

I stopped swirling, just for a second, before starting up again. He had me there—it had taken him two measly questions to size me up and get me squeamish.

“Then that means you’re a good date.” That seemed a relatively safe response. I smiled, not quite meeting his eyes.

“What if I turn out to be the best date you’ve ever had?” He smiled back, his gaze clinging to mine. My tortilla chip turned to dust in my mouth, and I reached for my water glass, relieved to have a distraction, no matter how fleeting.

I took a long drink, probably too long, but I was racking my brain for the safest response.

“Then you’ll get a full-page write-up in my journal,” I promised, figuring a version of the truth was probably best.

“Not precisely what I was hoping for,” he admitted, his head tipped to the side.

“And,” I hurried on before he could elaborate, “you will have raised the bar for all my future dates.” I was teasing now but urgently hoping he’d drop this line of questioning—I wasn’t about to agree to anything beyond this one date.

He smiled then, a cagey smile that had my pulse zipping with nerves.

“I’m a sucker for a good cause,” he said, twirling his tortilla chip through the salsa.

Sean and I had been steadily working our way through the chips and salsa during the “what-if?” repartee, and now it barely registered that his chip had been around the bowl before. And then it was like fireworks in my head. I had little doubt that tonight would remain uncontested as Best Date Ever, but it eased my mind just a little to discover that, as amazing—not to mention cocky—as he was, the man wasn’t perfect. I’d found a flaw: Sean was a double-dipper.

While I was against this on principle, it didn’t particularly bother me: If I was going to get Sean’s germs, I was likely getting them right now sharing a communal basket of chips, rubbing elbows (and thighs), and breathing the same spicily scented air. And if he should happen to kiss me tonight (please, God!), I’d be well and truly breached. Still, I wasn’t about to let this pass without comment.

“You’re a double-dipper!” I blurted.

Sean took the accusation in stride. “I hate to disappoint you, but no. Just good with my hands, luv.”

Temporarily thrown by the casual endearment, I quickly recovered, turning to argue. But he was faster. Slipping his hand around to cup the back of my neck and tipping his head sideways to speak directly into my ear, Sean made everything else fall away. His voice skittered over my skin and was the cause of widespread goose bumps.

“And I hope it’s not my germs you’re worried over, because I have plans for you. And clearly I have my work cut out for me.” He was dropping a kiss along the curved line of my neck as the waiter approached. As he presented our food on oversized stoneware, warning us of “hot plates,” Sean let his hand slide down, skimming over my shoulder, arm, and finally my thigh as he pulled away.

Every nerve ending was on full alert, so when I stuffed that first oven-hot bite of enchilada into my mouth, my tongue got scalded. I was frantically gulping down ice water when the mariachis materialized at our booth garbed in the traditional black and silver charro suits.

Sean set down his fork and asked, “Are you familiar with the Elvis ballad ‘It’s Now or Never’?”

“The King?” The guitarist looked a tad affronted by the question. “But of course. We play for you?”

“Just the instrumentals, if you don’t mind.” Apparently Sean was not too impressed with the vocal stylings of these men. And here I’d thought they were pretty good.

“Not at all, señor.” The request became a pleasure as Sean slid a few bills into the guitarist’s palm. Pocketing the tip, the trio began their tableside rendition of Elvis’s smoothly persuasive ballad.

“Let’s kick things up a notch, shall we?” His eyebrow winged up in challenge as mine dipped down in confusion.

And then, as the thrill of the trumpet subsided, the voice beside me rose to take its place.

My eyes widened, first in shock, then in panic, but I didn’t turn to look at him. This was so utterly unexpected that I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t wired for a serenade. If anything, the very thought of one made me cringe. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate and admire the sentiment and bravado that went into such an undertaking—I did—I definitely did! It was simply that the very idea of it was over-the-top, unnecessary, and just plain awkward. Still, out of politeness, I forcibly subdued my panic and shifted my gaze to my booth companion.

He was staring back at me, daring me to hold his gaze. Somehow I managed it.

He sang the refrain while I drowned slowly in the deep darkness of his voice. The words didn’t even register. It wasn’t until he raised a single eyebrow that things started to click, causing me to raise a rather panicked one right back. Was he literally asking me for a kiss ... for more? Tonight? No doubt he realized that I was way out of my element here, but what he may not have realized was that I was not the type to trade a kitschy Mexican dinner and a public serenade for a sexual romp.

One innocent little kiss probably couldn’t hurt anything ... Although, in all honesty, both times this man had put his lips on me, my world had tipped and twirled in reaction. And it had yet to right itself. My presence here tonight was proof of that.

Watching him, I could easily imagine how he’d looked when he was younger—too perfect for his own good. Time, I’m guessing, hadn’t changed him all that much; life had just sharpened his features, changing mischief into character, innocence into charm, and sweet into sexy. His confidence had probably always been there, behind everything. And why shouldn’t it be? Those eyelashes alone had probably saved him from trouble more times than he’d care to admit.

So, as he sang about my exciting lips and inviting arms, I pondered his and mourned a future absent of sexy little get-togethers. As I watched him, his eyes falling closed on the soulful parts and then flashing open again to gauge my reaction, alternating between serious performer and teasing charmer, playing both roles with gutsy flair, butterflies invaded my heart.

His arm was slung over the back of the seat, and he’d turned into me, seemingly at ease with this whopper of a PDA. The King, believe it or not, had nothing on Sean MacInnes. The song may be a classic, but I’d always felt it belonged to another generation. But now, hearing it sung in the slightly scratchy, very sexy voice of the man cuddled up next to me, it had taken on a whole new dynamic. I’d never felt this kind of pull, this shivery sort of wonder, and for just this one fleeting moment, it was perfect. This, I imagined—I truly hoped—was Romance.

As the song ended with a warning of last chances and a brassy flourish of trumpet, I smiled and applauded right along with the rest of my fellow diners. Impressive talent with an equal dose of daring—watch out, world. Tread very carefully, Nicola James.

After the applause had died down a bit and the mariachis had drifted away, I oh-so-casually reached for a chip, trying to ease us back to normal.

“Investment bankers rarely do that,” I commented.

“Excellent.” For some reason, this had him grinning. “I take it my grand gesture left you unconvinced?” he prompted. I was having trouble reading him, but he seemed slightly disappointed by this—or hurt, maybe.

“What? No! You were unbelievable! I’m definitely getting your CD!” I didn’t think it necessary to admit that I’d not only bought it already but broken it in as well. I honestly had no idea how to play this. At least my gushing merited another grin.

“I suppose it’s not a total loss, then. I made a sale, right?”

“Exactly.” I smiled at him and realized he was waiting. He was waiting for me to acknowledge that he’d been singing for me, waiting for me to register the words, clearly waiting for a kiss.

It’s now or never.

One night of romance. I’d known this all along, but I’d assumed Sean was looking for a bit more than that. A painful little hole opened up in the vicinity of my heart, but I ignored it. This was good—perfect—we were on the same page. This would make things much easier.

I looked over at him, hoping the hurt didn’t crack my smile, and realized he was still looking at me with raised brows. Oops.

“I guess you’re hoping for that kiss, huh?” I’d tucked half of my lower lip under my teeth and was squirming with nervous uncertainty.

“Right,” he confirmed with a smug smile as he settled back against the vinyl and crossed his arms over his chest.

“That was your motivation for such a grand gesture? A harmless little peck on the cheek from me?” I took a sip of water to cool the feverish flush that was running rampant over my skin.

“Come now, don’t sell yourself short.”

A bubble of laughter escaped me, but his expression didn’t change.

“All right. One kiss—you deserve it. I even liked your version better.” As his smile widened, I added, “Although, if Elvis himself had been serenading me, it might have been a different story.”

“His loss,” replied my charming date. He truly did deserve a kiss. Maybe I did too. So I leaned in and let my eyelashes flutter closed.

He stayed very still, so the placement of the kiss was at my discretion, and I decided to heed a lesson from the master. I very carefully touched my lips to the corner of his very talented and somewhat spicy mouth. Hints of the beer he’d had earlier mingled with the fiery pico de gallo and the tartness of the lime to give him an exotic taste, but beneath the subtle flavors, his lips were a long, smooth line that quirked into a smile well before my lips were willing to let go.

When I finally sat back, I couldn’t help but lick my lips. And I knew, even as I did, that it wasn’t the best idea. Sean was watching me, and as our gazes locked, I wondered how much he knew. I suspected he knew that I viewed this as a token kiss, imagining only one more—a good-bye kiss at the end of the evening—in our future. He likely also knew that deep down, beyond the protective layers of good sense and rational thinking, I wanted much more than one more kiss. What he might not have known was that I was willing to sacrifice supreme (but fleeting) enjoyment for the greater good ... for The Plan. I didn’t relish having to admit it.

With teeth-clenching effort, I shifted my eyes away just as Sean broke the silence.

“Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said, in a cheesy Elvis impersonation.

Not long after, as we stepped into the brisk evening air, it was my turn at cheesy. “Elvis has left the building.” We shared a smile.

Neither of us, it seemed, was through with the evening, so we found ourselves eating single scoops of ice cream outside in fifty-degree weather, amid fifteen-mile-an-hour gusts. It was insanity. But the really good kind.

Settled back against the well-worn slats of a wooden bench and propping his shoulder against mine, Sean was surprisingly, perhaps even moodily, silent, scooping up bites. I took my cue from him. He finished first, set his cup and spoon aside, and tucked me into the curve of his arm. Or at least he tried. I was proving a little difficult—think Han Solo frozen in carbonite, with a cup of ice cream in one motionless hand and a white plastic spoon in the other. I couldn’t help but wonder, what was the protocol here? A sensible girl finds herself in a far-from-sensible situation, and her date makes a move only minutes before the night—and the romance—must necessarily come to an end. And ... go!