Page 54 of Single-Minded
“Oh, hi,” I say awkwardly. “I thought I’d just stop by to say hello…”
“Alex!” he says, embracing me warmly. I reach up to return the hug, finding my hand resting on the back of his arm, noticeably firm beneath my touch. “I’m so glad you made it,cher,” he says.
As usual, I linger too long in his embrace; the night is so warm, the rocking of the boat so lulling, I have to stop myself from swaying to the music. Daniel smells really good—a masculine cocktail of saltwater, citrus, and probably just full-on testosterone. Finally, after too long and yet not long enough, he steps back and I hold out the bottle of wine. He smiles and whistles. “This is one of my favorites, thank you.”
“Thank you so much for inviting me,” I say.
“It wouldn’t be the same without you,cher.” He smiles and the light from the globes catches his deep blue eyes. I could just drown in them. “You look luminous tonight.”
I blush and mumble, “Thanks.” There’s something so easy about his manner. I get the feeling he could say pretty much anything, no matter how wicked or corny, and it would still come out as charming and genteel.
He offers his hand to me, which feels so old-school and manly. “Shall we?” I gingerly allow him to take my hand, trailing behind him as he leads me to the rear deck of the boat. “Watch your step,cher,” he says as we make our way back. There are five tables, all covered in the vintage ivory linen tablecloths I selected from the stash of treasures in the storage room. They’re stunning. A small bar is set up on a side table, and a lavish banquet table is layered in different shades of blue chiffon tablecloths and a lovely presentation of hors d’oeuvres. It all looks delicious. Seeing the boat in the evening, with the stars twinkling above and the elegant arch of the Ringling Bridge in the distance, I’m finally visualizing Boudreaux coming together. The restaurant is going to be everything Daniel wants it to be.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks. He drops my hand as I nod, and pours me a glass from an open bottle. “Try this one,” he suggests, “I think you’ll like it.” I take a sip and nod in agreement. It’s really good.
“Thank you. Am I the only one here?” I ask, taking another slow sip. “I’m so sorry, am I early?”
He looks down for a split second, and then up again, until his eyes meet mine. “I might have told you eight o’clock when I told everyone else eight-thirty.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, without knowing why. Nervously, I set my glass down on the bar. “Do you need help setting up?”
“Dance,cher?” he asks, his blue eyes playful. I nod and he pulls me gently into his arms. He’s warm. We sway to the music and the gentle rocking of the boat. His hand rests on the small of my back, in that sweet spot that makes you feel feminine and protected and adored all at once. He’s respectful in his distance, but with every sway back and forth, we move closer to each other, a millimeter at a time. I feel myself melting into his arms, and the tension between us is delicious and innate and disorienting all at once. I examine the line of his jaw, a tiny dimple on the left side of his cheek when he smiles, the sexy cleft in his chin, the firmness of his back, wanting to drink in every detail to relive for later in case this never happens again. Daniel is confident in his movements, but delicate in his touch, as though he’s hesitant to go too far. His breath warms my ear, and I smile as I feel him inhaling the scent of my hair.
He pulls me closer still. “Is this okay,cher?” he asks, his lilting voice just barely above a whisper.
I don’t know what to say. I nod, but I don’t actually know whatthisis. What is it? Just a dance? A prelude? Is he just warm and gracious, and am I so desperate, naïve, or misguided that I’m confusing platonic friendship for something more? The fact that I find myself drooling over my client and fantasizing that Daniel is flirting with me doesn’t make it so. I can’t trust my instincts, they’re surely steering me off a cliff. Should I really rely on my thumping heart, lust-addled mind, and frenetic hormones? Or do the smart thing and just shut this down right now, eat dinner, beg off dessert, get the hell out of Dodge, and avoid risking the humiliation and heartbreak of falling for yet another gay man?
I close my eyes, pretending to be contemplating a decision, in the same way you promise yourself you’ll get up and out of bed in one minute and that you’re just resting your eyes, when you know full well you’re going to fall back asleep within seconds and it will take a wailing snooze alarm, the promise of bacon, or the threat of unemployment to coerce you out from under the covers. Just another minute of dancing, and then I’ll stop. One more song. After this next song. I rock in his arms under the stars and the blanket of night air, unwilling or unable to tear myself away.
“Hello? Danny, where are you?” A familiar voice pierces our private little bubble and I step back quickly. Daniel keeps hold of my hand a second longer and twirls me slowly before releasing me. I love to be twirled; doesn’t every woman? I can feel myself flushing and hope it isn’t evident on my skin. Daniel looks at me and smiles, his expression playful.
“We’re back here,” Daniel says loudly in the direction of the voice. He leans in close, his lips brushing over my ear and sending shivers down my neck as he whispers to me in his soft Southern cadence, “That was a sweet and unexpected lagniappe,cher.”
I’m going to have to look up that word when I get home. I’m pretty sure it means appetizer. Either that, or rack of lamb.
Daniel strides toward the front of the boat to greet his guests. Just as he reaches the edge of the interior dining area, a group of three round the corner.
“Alex!” exclaims Carter. “I’m so glad you’re here! Out on the town!” He’s flanked by a dark-haired man who looks vaguely familiar, and a woman I’d never met before. Carter makes his way to me quickly and gives me a tight squeeze.
“Good to see you, Carter,” I say, as he kisses me on each cheek with great flourish. He did always have a flair for the dramatic.
“Good to see you too, Alex. How are you holding up, sweetheart? You look amazing. Don’t you just love this little floating palace?” he prattles on without waiting for a response. That’s Carter, I’m used to it. “I can’t wait to see what you and Daniel do with it. It’s going to be fabulous.” He turns quickly to the two guests behind him. “Lolly and Santiago, this is my very dear friend Alex, and our host, Daniel. This is Lolly, she’s a graphic designer who works with me.” Lolly smiles and Carter continues, “And this handsome fellow is Santiago.”
“Nice to meet you both,” I say, shaking Lolly’s hand, then Santiago’s. “Have we met before?” I ask. There’s something about him that is so familiar.
“He was at your party,” interjects Carter. Suddenly, my pulse roars in my ears, and I feel the light-headed, tingly sensation that comes before passing out. I search around desperately for my wine and grab the glass from the bar, swigging it down as my brain races in horror. Oh God. Santiago is the Cuban guy. The Cuban guy Michael made a date to have sex with at our divorce party. The one he flirted with like mad in front of me, in front of all of our friends and family. The man whose name Michael could not remember.
One should not chug an entire glass of wine at an elegant dinner party. I start hacking and coughing, having practically waterboarded myself out of sheer humiliation. Am I ever going to live this down? Am I ever going to be free of Michael? Carter, Lolly, and Santiago look on at my oncoming breakdown with mild concern.
Daniel is at my side instantly. “Are you okay?”
“Seasick,” I choke out.
Confusion colors his expression.
“Why don’t you just come with me?” he asks, leading me around the front of the boat, through the dining room, and back through the kitchen, setting me on a stool. “Are you okay? Are you really seasick?”
I’m sure this is baffling to him, as I’m on the boat three or four times a week and have never, ever complained of seasickness. I should have come up with something more plausible. Scurvy, maybe. Rapid-onset scurvy.
