Page 4 of March’s Bad Boy: Ty

"Where are you going?" I’m curious because he insisted on planning everything tonight. Something else he said the guy should do.

"I figure we'd head into Whitefish where there aren't so many prying eyes and there’s a little more to do," he says.

As we drive, our conversation is relaxed and comfortable, putting me at ease.

"What tattoos did you do at the shop today?" It’s one of my favorite questions to ask him.

"I had a guy come in asking for Mario from Super Mario World, but he wanted Mario in assless chaps. He was dead serious and went through with it," he says with a laugh.

"I'll never understand some of the tattoos people put on their bodies, especially something so permanent." I shake my head.

"When are you going to let me tattoo you?" he asks.

"When I figure out what I want on my body for the rest of my life." I give him the same answer I always do.

The drive to Whitefish is easy, filled with laughter and teasing. Ty points out ridiculous landmarks, making up fake stories about them until I'm laughing so hard I can barely breathe. It's always effortless like this between us and one of my favorite things about Ty.

He pulls up to the diner we saw mentioned on one of those food TV shows and said we wanted to try out next time we were in Whitefish.

"I forgot about this place! Oh my gosh, I'm so excited. This is perfect!" When I go to open my door, Ty reaches across me and pulls it closed.

"Stay there." He gets out of the car and walks around to open the door for me.

"A gentleman always opens the car door for his date," he says in a slightly teasing voice.

"Ahh, but I didn't think you were a gentleman," I say.

He shrugs. "Maybe for the right girl."

He can’t possibly mean me and I know that, so why does my heart start racing at the thought? I swear I see a hint of pink on his cheeks, but that can't be right.

Ty guides me toward the front door with his hand on my lower back. His touch has my stomach doing somersaults.

It’s as if he studied a handbook on being the perfect gentleman. He opens the door to the restaurant for me, pulls out my chair, and orders my drink before I even ask. His focus is solely on me. When the waitress eyes him too long and seems to be trying to decide if he’s on a date or with a friend because she wants to flirt with him, he doesn't even notice. It makes me feel like the center of his universe.

"This," he says, leaning in, "is how a guy should treat you."

I sip my wine, my cheeks warm. "You make it look easy."

He shrugs, watching me. "It is. When it's the right person."

Something about the way he says it makes my stomach flip.

"Or when you know the person. My date isn’t going to know what I like to drink to be able to order for me." I hold up my wine.

"Well, I have to take any advantage that I can. I want to set the bar so high that only the right guy will be able to meet it. I don't want to see you hurt,” he says, the last part in a low tone.

We talk about all sorts of things, making the time pass too quickly. Not once does he even glance at the waitress, much toher disappointment. But she finally gets the hint and brings out our food.

He insists on paying for dinner, saying the guy should always pay, but even more so on a first date. On our way home, our conversation flows effortlessly. Before I know it, we're parked outside my place. The air between us shifts, charged with something unspoken.

Clearing his throat, he unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Your date should always walk you to your door," he says before getting out of the car and walking around to open my door for me. He offers me a hand to help me out of the car, but doesn't drop it once I’m out.

The entire way up to my front porch, he holds my hand. His rough, calloused tattooed hand in mine feels like home. There is no other way to describe it, except it feels like a perfect match. Why hadn't I noticed it before? Maybe because we really haven't held hands like this before.

"This is always the weirdest part of the night," I whisper as I turn to face him in front of my door.

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