Page 33 of Dear Pink

I can’t help my face from cracking in two. I bet I look like the joker. My gaze meets hers, and we both wear toothy grins. High school nerves return again. She wants to have dinner with me. Whoa, she wants to have dinner withme. Did I ask a woman out on a date?

“I’m heading out now.” She points to the parking lot across the way.

“Me too. Bike to the car?”

“Umm,” she says, and I fear she’s changed her mind. Should I bike away before she gets the words out?

“I’d love to shower first,” she says, and my mind goes straight to her naked body covered in sudsy water. I must blush because she adds, “I don't mean with you. I mean before dinner.”

Now, my face feels on fire. My complexion must match her shirt. Damn, I wish she meant with me. I can’t erase the picture of her in my shower: bubbles sliding, tongues mingling, her lips begging to be kissed.

“In an hour?” she asks. “Does that work? I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Good. Great. Yeah, okay.” The shower fades into the background. “An hour? No, wait. That doesn’t work.”

“It doesn’t?” Her face falls.

“How about an hour and a half? I have to swing by the clinic and check on a patient first. The stop won’t take long, but I don’t want to worry all night.”

“Of course, or we can do dinner another time?”

“No,” I answer too quickly. “I want to see you tonight. How about Vine & Dine? It’s a quick stop, but I don’t want to worry all night about Coco.”

“Coco?”

“Cocker spaniel. She had a rough day. Andre, my vet tech, is with her now, but I would feel better checking on her in person.”

She smiles, and I swear I could count her teeth if I wanted. This woman hits all my buttons.

She checks her watch. “Okay, meet you at 8.”

I watch her cram the new bike into her Honda, and I chuckle. I bet I have an extra bike rack in the garage. “I can’t wait, Pink,” I say after she drives away.

Chapter 10 - Hannah

My Uber drops me off at Vine & Dine, and I wipe a drop of sweat from my brow. It’s 8:00 and 90 degrees outside. In a flouncy red petticoat dress cinched at the waist, I hoped to channel Bettie Page’s sex appeal, but I’m melting like a popsicle instead. It’s not the style I intended.

Remembering Gabe’s smile makes my palms itch. Do I want this date to go well? I'm a confused mess. Yes, the hottest guy I’ve ever seen asked me out, but he’s probably like all the other jerks.For some strange reason, he wants to date me. Despite nausea and hives, I’m excited.

I brush away another bead of sweat collecting at my hairline and scan the street for Gabe. He said to meet him outside the restaurant. I peer through the window, but I can’t make out any faces. The door opens and a gust of air conditioning blasts my face. I inhale the cool air and retreat to the stifling humidity. I scan the cars parked in the valet, but Gabe’s SUV isn’t there.

Perspiration is an issue. A new rivulet trickles down my leg, forming a tiny puddle in the arch of my shoe. I’m a fool. The man changed his mind and realized I’m not his type. What was I thinking? I should have said no to the date. This was a huge mistake. Libby made me say yes. Her constant nagging voice forced me to notice his broad chest, his ocean blue eyes, and the way my skin broke out in goosebumps when he touched my arm. I planned to forget men until Gabe appeared in the elevator, like Thor on a bike, with bulging muscles and a superhero smile.

I regard the valet attendant with my hands on my hips. Maybe I should leave? This is your fault, Libby. You conspired against me, using my vagina as your secret weapon. I glance at my phone. He’s probably shagging another girl.

Shagging? Since when are you British?

I’m allowed to say British things. I tell her in my head.

Okay. Okay. Don’t get your knickers in a bunch.

I study the valet lot for the seventh time before I notice a flicker of movement to my right. It’s him and sweet Jesus, he’s on his bike again.

“Sorry, I’m late. My visit with Coco took longer than I planned,” he says, stopping on the sidewalk. He removes his helmet and his blonde wavy locks fall loose around his shoulders. Only a man like Gabe could ride a bike across town in leather sneakers, black faded jeans, and a form-fitted silver collared shirt and not shed a drop of sweat. Me, I’m a sweaty pig in a dress. Bettie Page would be ashamed.

“Wow. You’re stunning.” He leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

Stunning? Is this guy for real? I must resemble a smudged painting. “Thank you,” I say

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