20. Birdie

Confession: I've never had this many inappropriate thoughts about a man in my life.

"I've told you that you can stay here as long as you like," Mara reminded me as she handed me lipstick for my not-date with Cohen. We were in the bathroom as I tried to get ready and not panic at the same time.

I took the tube and examined the shade of pink. "Is this not too young? I don't want him to think I'm a child."

"It's fun," Mara said. "And you're going on a date, not a business meeting."

With a shrug, I began spreading the makeup on my lips, then reached for a tissue to blot it off. "I know you said I could stay, but I don't want to impose. Wasn't that the point of buying your own home anyway? That you could live on your own, by your own rules?"

"I mean, there was some stuff about building equity in there, but also, you're like a sister to me. More than my own flesh and blood. If that place is half as bad as you're trying to make it out not to be, then I don't want you living there."

"It really wasn't that bad—" I began.

"'Not that bad' and ‘good' are two different things," she quipped.

I let out a sigh and handed her lipstick back. "I don't like feeling like an imposition."

She shook her head. "If you keep doing my dishes, you can live here forever."

I giggled. "Now that's a rent payment I can afford."

"Exactly. Now look at me."

I turned toward her, squaring my shoulders. I'd decided to wear the dress he bought me that first night, especially since I wouldn't run in to anyone I knew. Maybe just to see him smile. Maybe to show him I wasn't always a complete mess who went to bars in skimpy dresses and talked to birds.

"You look absolutely beautiful," she said with a small smile. "And whatever happens on this not-date, I want you to enjoy it." She cupped my cheek with her hand. "You are the very best friend I've ever had, and you deserve the best."

My eyes stung at the emotion in her voice. Mara always knew the right words to say to me. With the knowledge that, no matter what, she was in my corner, I felt more confident than I had all day.

We left the bathroom, and I gave Mara a wave before picking up my purse and going to my car. Cohen had texted me the address of a restaurant in Brentwood I'd never been to before. Most people from Emerson stayed on their side of town unless there was a new client or a large sum of money involved.

On the way there, I listened to one of my favorite podcasters since the breakup. Sure, it was sappy self-help stuff, but how do you think I got over eighteen years of living with my parents? I constantly tried to learn better ways to cope and connect, neither of which my parents taught me. My self-help podcasts annoyed Dax though—he would rather listen to indie artists or NPR.

I had terrible taste in men. I could see that now. Would my judgement be clearer with Cohen?

Part of me wondered if I should just turn around now. If getting to know another man would even be worth it. But Mara's voice telling me I deserved to be loved played in the back of my mind until I arrived at the restaurant and parked outside.

As I walked to the front door with the big sign saying View House, Cohen stepped outside, his smile just as attractive as the outfit he wore. His eyes scanned my body, making my cheeks heat, and he said, "You are a vision in that dress."

I sheepishly looked toward the ground and back to him. "If you compliment me too much, you're going to cross the line into date territory."

He chuckled. "Is that in the Academy handbook as well?"

"Maybe we should ask the headmaster," I teased.

"Hard pass." Opening the door, he stepped back to let me in, and I was immediately chilled by the air conditioning. The host asked us if we were ready to be seated, but I turned to Cohen. "Is it okay if we sit outside?" Dax never wanted to be around the flies or even a hint of humidity or sunlight. He preferred to be indoors, to say the least.

"Of course," he said, and the host led us to a patio table on an expansive wooden deck. As I sat down and looked over the railing, I realized where the restaurant had gotten its name. We were high enough up that we could see the city and the greenery of its trees splayed before us. I could even see a line of ocean blending with the sky.

"It's beautiful out here," I said.

He nodded. "One of my favorite places to eat. They don't have bad craft beers either."

My eyes widened with delight. "I want one of those."

"That can be arranged." He passed me the drink menu, then his face disappeared behind his own menu. I felt a twinge of sadness that his eyes were obscured. The blue green color seemed to change each time I met him. Today, in the evening light, they looked a lighter green compared to the darker teal I'd seen earlier in the week.

I decided on a drink, then turned my gaze toward my own menu and found a crab cake sandwich that looked good. Once the waiter had taken our orders, I felt strangely vulnerable. Like all the distractions that had existed before were suddenly gone. Now there was only us and this beautiful view.

"Tell me about yourself, friend to friend." Cohen winked. "Did you always want to be a guidance counselor?"

We were getting right into it then. I looked toward my hands in my lap, then back to him. "Actually, I wanted to be a fashion designer."

His eyebrows rose. "That would have been my last guess."

"Because I dress badly?"

He nearly choked on his water. "No-I-I just-I. You seem to be—"

I laughed, holding up my hand. "I'm picking on you."

His nerves quickly melted into a smile, which I returned.

"I was a different person in high school," I said shortly.

"How so?"

I looked over the view, wondering how much to tell him. How much of the past I really wanted to dig up and remember today. Finally, I let out a quiet breath and said, "High school was such a hard time for me; I figured it probably was for other people too."

He nodded. "High school was the worst."

Now it was my turn to be surprised. "Seriously? With that jawline? I bet you cruised through the halls on a white horse."

He chuckled. "Hardly. I barely passed any of my classes, and everyone thought I was stupid and headed toward jail time as soon as I graduated."

"What?" I asked. That wasn't the vibe I was getting from him at all. Had I really misread him that badly? And if I had, did that mean I had bad taste in men that went beyond just Dax?

"I didn't have the best role models, and I was angry," he continued. "Angry people do stupid things."

"That's the truth," I agreed, feeling like I understood him on a whole new level.

The waiter came back with our drinks, and I took in the dark fizzing beer in front of me.

Cohen held up his glass and said, "To friendship."

"And nothing more," I added, to remind both him and me, then moved to clink my glass with his.

Or tried to, before he said, "Hey!" and pulled his glass back.

"What did I do?" I asked, looking around. "Is there a bee?"

"No," he chuckled. "I went on a trip to Germany last year—sourcing some new drafts for the bar—and my German friend told me if you don't look each other in the eyes when you say cheers, it's seven years of bad sex."

My cheeks flushed at the places my mind went. "We can't have that, now can we?"

His eyes held mine, turning my stomach into a puddle in their heat. "Cheers," he said again, his voice low and smooth.

"Cheers," I repeated, my hand barely steady on the glass as I clinked my cup to his.

I was in trouble.

The waiter soon returned with our food, and for the rest of the meal, we drank and ate and talked. He told me about Ollie and how he had a natural green thumb. How he'd first come to realize he might want to open a bar. And he asked me about myself too, learning about my hobbies like birdwatching and beta reading Mara's smutty romance novels. I couldn't help but notice how easy it was to be around him. Or how his words and the way he spoke them sent butterflies dancing in my stomach.

The bill came, and Cohen reached for it.

"No way," I said, extending my hand for the leather folder. "We're splitting the check. Friends split checks."

"Apparently you have bad friends. I like to treat my friends from time to time, especially when I was the one who asked them to meet up."

I looked toward the expansive view for a moment, then back to him. "Well, I'm learning something else about you."

"Yeah?" he asked as he stuffed his credit card into the slot. "What's that?"

"You're stubborn."

He chuckled. "I just know what I want." His eyes narrowed slightly, like he was seeing me and no one else, and it made my skin sizzle.

Being his friend and nothing more was going to be hard. I had to have more self-control than this. Simply the sight of a hot guy had me all off-kilter and thinking about things I shouldn't have been thinking about in a very public place.

The waiter came and got the card, and Cohen said, "Do you want to get some ice cream after this? There's a stand nearby, and it has a four-star rating online."

I giggled. "You check ratings?"

"You don't?"

I shook my head. "Everyone's either getting paid to leave a good review or having a bad day and leaves a one-star."

His eyebrows rose. "So if you saw a review that said someone found a finger in their chili, you would just ignore it."

"I wouldn't see it in the first place." I reached for my drink and finished the last of it. "Take this beer for instance. I never looked at the reviews before I came here, and I'm a very satisfied customer."

He snorted. "That's because I took you here, and I looked at the reviews."

"But if you hadn't looked at the reviews, it still would have been good."

With an exasperated smile, he shook his head. "You like to roll the dice, don't you?"

"When the stakes are small?" I shrugged. "Sure."

"That's where we disagree." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, which had been cleared except for our drinks. "See, today, this, wasn't a small-stake event to me."

My heart sped. "What do you mean?"

"What's the one thing you can't get back?"

I bit my lip, waiting for his answer.

"Time," he said, his eyes flicking to my mouth. "I knew I'd never get another chance at a first not-date with you. No way was I going to blow it."

My lips lifted into a smile of their own accord. "Rest assured, you did not ‘blow it.'"

"That's good to hear."

The waiter came back, and Cohen scribbled his signature, along with a tip, on the receipt. Twenty-five percent. As a former waitress, swoon.

Standing, he extended his hand and said, "Ice cream?

Despite the voice in the back of my head telling me holding hands was a bad idea, I slipped my fingers through his.

Best bad decision ever.