Page 9 of Ghosted
“Wow, we’re already at the gift-giving stage?” I ask, raising my eyebrow teasingly at him.
“Well, I wasn’t expecting one right now, obviously. I’m thinking anniversaries,” he says sincerely.
“Anniversaries?” I all but shout.
He takes one look at my face and snorts a laugh. He tugs me into his side, wrapping a long arm around my shoulders. “I’m kidding, but you should really see your face right now. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I can’t help but laugh and shake my head.
If only you knew, dude.
“Sorry. I was deciding if it was time to cut and run. It’s creepy to talk about anniversaries a couple of hours into the first date, you know,” I say, plucking his arm off my shoulder and continuing to walk down the street. Even if he wasjoking, the spike of anxiety at his words felt very real. My fear of commitment runs deep, apparently.
He ups his pace to keep stride with me and says, “I know, I’m sorry. You make me nervous.” He looks at me sheepishly, that pretty blush reddening his cheeks again.
I stop at that and turn to look at him. “I make you nervous?”
He rolls his eyes and replies, “Yeah. Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re beautiful. Not to mention funny and easy to talk to. Our chemistry is off the charts, if you ask me,” at my expression, he stops himself. “Okay, sorry. See? Nervous. Anyway, what I meant is that this date is going well, and it's been a minute since I’ve had a first date go well.”
“Really?” I ask skeptically. He’s truthfully one of the sexiest men I’ve ever seen in person, and when he isn’t freaking me out, he’s pretty funny.
“Yeah. I’ve had a few girlfriends over the years, but nothing that stuck for longer than a year or so. My last relationship ended about two years ago, and every date I’ve been on since has either ended badly or we just didn’t hit it off. I’m not sure why. Just bad luck, I guess,” he finishes, looking down at his polished shoes. “So, yeah. When I noticed how well the date was going, I got overly excited. Sorry. Can we take back the last few minutes of embarrassing myself?” He smiles at me hopefully; his damned dimple looks adorably pokable.
I roll my lips and reach out to grab his hand, leading him down the street again. “We can. I get it,” I say with a shrug. “I haven’t had a serious relationship, well… ever. And clearly, very few of my dates go well, so I’m not one to judge on that front.”
“You’ve never had a serious relationship?” he asks.
He doesn’t sound judgy, more curious, so I feel comfortableanswering, “Not really. I’ve dated a handful of guys here and there, but it never moved past the first few dates.”
Before he can reply, we’re in front of Brewed Awakening. I pull open the doors and make my way inside, Dean following close behind. I watch him take in the funky decor, from the deep green damask wallpaper on the back wall to the various antique dining tables and chairs scattered in groups. The entire place has a vaguely Victorian feel with the added charm of thrifted pieces.
“Hey, Rae,” Misha, the barista, greets. He waves, his mouthwatering, tanned arm flexing with the motion.
“Mish. How’s it going?” I ask, leaning against the counter. He’s been working here for years, and we’ve developed a casual friendship between placing orders and brewing coffees. Unfortunately, he’s well off the market. He and his husband are very happy. I learned that the hard way when I hit on him years ago. I got a friend out of it, so I can’t complain too much.
“I get off in an hour, so pretty good. Want a hot chocolate?” he asks, already turning towards the bar to make me one.
“Make that two, please,” Dean says, stepping up next to me and wrapping his arm around me again. I shake my head at his obvious posturing.
“You got it, big guy,” Misha says, lowering his voice flirtatiously.
I see Dean instantly relax, and he sends Misha a wink before pulling out his wallet. Misha pauses his work to swipe the card and then turns back to making the most delicious hot chocolate ever. I don’t know what he puts in it because he won’t tell me, but it’s truly the best. Even Wren doesn’t know his secret recipe, only that he adds extra spices to the mix they use.
“Come on,” I show Dean to my favorite little alcove. I sit onthe low couch, placing my bag on the antique walnut coffee table.
“I really like this place. It’s very cozy,” Dean says, sitting next to me. We both turn slightly to face each other, and the low lighting makes him look like a dream come to life.
“Yeah, it’s my favorite in town. My sister, Wren, works here. She’s been a barista for the last five years.”
“Is she your only sibling?”
“Yeah, we’re fairly close in age, so she feels almost more like a twin than a run-of-the-mill sibling. What about you?” I ask.
“I have three older brothers and one younger sister,” he says.
I feel my eyes bug out. “You’re one offive?”
Dean laughs and replies, “Yep. My parents were both from small families, so they wanted a big one. They definitely got their wish.”
“Are you close with them?” I wonder.
