5. Bryn

5

brYN

I’ve dated sporadically since my husband, Evan, left me two years ago.

Left after he begged me to open my heart to him, to give more, do more, be more. He took off because he said I didn’t spend enough time with him, didn’t devote enough energy to our marriage. He wanted all of me, all the time. If only I had given more of myself, he’d have kept it in his pants.

It was a shit excuse as far as shit excuses went. Add in that I’d been grieving at the time, and it was the shittiest excuse of all.

But that’s life.

I’d cracked my heart open to the man, and he’d stomped on that organ.

I had no choice but to pick myself up, nurse my wounds, and move on. I don’t want to marry again. I’m not even sure I want something serious if it could wound me as deeply as he did. But I wouldn’t mind companionship.

Plus, there’s the work angle. How could I run a dating and relationship advice site without at least walking the walk and talking the talk now that I was single again?

It was fitting. It was right.

I can’t preach the gospel of putting yourself out there without putting myself out there.

So, about six months ago, I got online.

That’s how you do it these days—swiping right, checking boxes, perusing profiles. But I haven’t met anyone in those six months who’s floated my boat for an extended cruise down the river of love. Or lust, for that matter.

Still, that dating time in the trenches has prepped me for what comes next.

The getting to know you fox-trot.

After the hostess shows us to our table and I settle in on the plush royal-blue lounge chair, I take the first dance step.

“Gin Joint,” I say, musing on the words, soaking in the ambiance of this establishment, from the jewel-colored chaise lounges to the swoony music piping through the speakers. “With a name like that, I’m curious if we’re even going to be allowed to order mojitos, since they’re made with rum.”

“Or if we should,” Logan tosses back.

“Right? Is the name sort of a warning—don’t order anything but a martini or gin rickey?”

“If we want a mojito, maybe we ought to find a spot called the Rum Club.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Google, please find the nearest Rum Club right now,” he says playfully into his phone, then sets it face down on the table.

“And then we’ll pop over to Tequila Town,” I offer.

“Excellent plan. We’ll make it a barhop, and by the time we hit up Whiskey World, we’ll be wasted.”

I laugh. “Sounds like quite a raucous night.”

He grins, then gestures to the bar. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”

I sit up straighter and nod excitedly. “I do. I love secrets.”

He cups the side of his mouth and whispers, “Order the Plot Twist.”

“Will I find out the butler did it?”

“Or that it was all a dream.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness, it’s the owner’s name for her gin mojito. The woman who runs this place is a maestro of cocktails, and I highly recommend the Plot Twist.”

I mime banging a gavel, like an auctioneer. “Sold.”

As if on cue, the waitress swings by, flashing a pearly-white grin. “What can I get for you two? The signature gin cocktails are delicious, but we also have a full menu of wine, beer, and mixed drinks.”

“We’d like two Plot Twists,” he says.

“I’ll have them to you shortly.” She turns on her heel to go.

“Two is always a good number of plot twists,” I chip in once she’s gone.

“Three is simply too many.”

“And sometimes one just isn’t enough,” I say, a little flirty.

He doesn’t answer right away, but lets my comment simmer before he says, “One definitely isn’t enough,” with a dollop of innuendo in his tone too.

And the fox-trot is hitting a rhythm. I decide to lean on directness and channel my inner lady boss. “In the interest of full disclosure, I wanted you to know I’m going to vote Made Connections app of the year.”

His grin is nice and easy. It slides across his handsome face, lighting up his soulful brown eyes. “I’ll do you one better. I’m building a shrine to that app.”

I laugh, relieved that he feels the same way about how the night is going. And it’s heading straight to an A-plus review for the app. But I’m hardly thinking about the piece I need to write—because this date isn’t about a test run of an app.

I tried the app to find Logan.

And I’m so damn glad I did.

That’s what I’m going to focus on.

Him.

But more so on how being with him makes me feel. The answer is . . . good.

I feel good about myself.

That’s something I haven’t experienced in a long time with a man—a zip and zing, coupled with respect. I didn’t know I was missing that cocktail, but now that I taste it, I like it. I want the whole drink. “Yes. I think I might build a shrine to the app too,” I say, giving him my best flirty smile.

He draws a deep breath, his expression shifting to serious mode. “But I do have a confession to make.”

Uh-oh. This is where it gets weird. I’ve heard about these moments on dates. Read the horror stories. I hope he’s not about to tell me he chews his own toenails. Or that I remind him of his mom.

Still, I sit straighter, sliding into a professional mode as I brace myself. “Sure. What is it?”

“I was kicking myself for not asking for your number at the store. It was on the tip of my tongue. And I wanted to. I’m sorry. I should have made my move faster.”

I smile, wide and happy. Heat warms my body, makes me feel good. “No apologies ever. I’m just glad you found me, then.”

He gestures from him to me and back again. “This is newish to me. And I kind of had this moment in the store where I wasn’t sure what to do. Like, what’s the protocol? Do I ask for her number? Or is there a process I don’t know about? Like, do I get on Tinder and check geographic proximity? Run a scanner over her to see if I can detect levels of interest?”

“They’d have been high,” I reassure him, reassured myself.

He pats his chest. “Sky-high here. Anyway, I rarely use any of those apps,” he says, adjusting his chair, scooting it a tad closer to the table and me. “My friends made me get online a couple of weeks ago, but I haven’t even opened my profile. So, the Made Connections and other dating apps are pretty new to me.”

He’s not the first guy to claim he’s new to the apps. The skeptic in me says it’s a line a guy uses when he wants a woman to think she’s special so she’ll sleep with him. But in this case, I kind of already want to sleep with him. And also, he seems legit, like he’s not afraid to make fun of himself, which is endearing.

“I’ve used the popular dating apps for the past several months,” I say, figuring I’ll be up-front and honest, because honesty is sexy. “But I only learned of Made Connections after some of my colleagues told me about it shortly after I met you.”

He points from me to him, question marks in his eyes. “Is this where we have the whole what do you do conversation?”

I make a shooing motion, flicking that topic away. “Nah. Let’s talk about more interesting things. But just to get it over with—I run a lifestyle website.” I don’t mention that I’m reviewing the app, because I’d have tried to find him whether or not I was testing the app. As far as I’m concerned, this date is for me.

“And to get it over with,” he echoes with humor, “I’m in media finance and management. Moving on.” Logan acts like he’s also grateful to zip past the expected but boring topic.

I segue back to apps, poking around to see what I can glean about this guy I like. “If you’re not on the apps much, how did you hear about Made Connections?”

“My twin sister told me about it on Friday.”

“Twins. That seems like it could either be fun or crazy-making.”

“Both. It’s completely both. She knows how to rib me like no one else, but she’s awesome—we’re great friends. We play on a co-ed softball team together with some of my buds.”

“And since she told you about the app, does that mean you told her about me?” I can’t resist fishing. Hearing these details is like drinking a feel-good elixir.

He smirks, his eyes twinkling. “I might have mentioned you at lunch on Friday. And, let’s see, how did she put it when I gave her the story?” He stares at the ceiling like he’s trying to recall the conversation. “I believe she called me pathetic and commanded me to try the app, at which point my buds seconded her, saying something along the lines of ‘ Do it, do it now .’ Like I said, I felt pretty dumb for not getting your number that day. I wanted to, then my phone rang, and it was my kid’s school, and I had pickup that day. But let’s not talk about exes or schedules.”

The elixir spreads to every molecule in my body, setting off a buzz. I love that he’s confident enough to pull back the curtain, to let me see the details of how this date came to be. “You’re normal. Human. Hey, I didn’t ask for your number either, and I should have. But look on the bright side—you have terrific friends.”

“I do.” He leans closer, shaking his head almost like he’s surprised at something. “You have gorgeous eyes, Bryn.” He holds up a hand helplessly, like he can’t quite believe those words came out of his mouth. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

My skin tingles. My stomach flips. “Like many people, I enjoy compliments, and I especially enjoy them from men that I really wanted to see again.”

“Good. Then let me add that you look absolutely fucking stunning tonight, and those boots are incredible.” His gaze roams over me, and I embrace the compliment, kicking one high-heeled leather-clad foot back and forth.

“And you look as good in jeans and a Henley as you did in a suit.”

“Thanks,” he says with a grin, pushing up the sleeves of his Henley the slightest bit.

My eyes pop when I catch sight of his skin. “Nice ink.”

His gaze drifts down to a lotus flower design on his forearm, as if he just remembered it was there. Running a thumb across the pattern, he grins. “It’s sort of new. I got it a year ago. Always wanted ink though.”

“It’s beautiful and manly at the same time. I love it,” I say, reaching to touch his arm. His breath hitches when I run my finger along the intricate curved lines. “It looks good on you. Really good.”

Who is this bold woman inhabiting me? This woman hasn’t come out to play at night like this in some time. But this daring woman is me. This is how I am at work, and it’s thrilling to be this way with a guy too. To be direct, to tell him what I like.

That voice of worldly wisdom chimes in.

Don’t be afraid to go after what you want .

Oh yes, Mama, I am going after it. I don’t need a man, but do I ever want this one.

He hooks his thumb toward the door. “Would you like to just go home with me right now?” He’s laughing, but I can tell he means it. I can tell, too, that he’s not pressuring me—that he’s simply putting his cards on the table, and I like that.

But while I kind of do want to go home with him, I’m not ready to strut out of here yet to do the horizontal tango. “Why don’t we have that drink first, and maybe a little later you can ask me that question again?” Gently, I kick the toe of my knee-high boot against his leg, exposing more of my thigh thanks to my short skirt. “We’ll see if you still get the answer I would have given you now.”

He mimes grabbing a pencil, writing something down. “Note to self: ask Bryn a very important question in a little while,” he mutters as if to himself.

I set my chin in my hand, and I meet honesty with honesty. “I told my friends about you too.”

The corner of his lips curves up. “Is that so?”

“One of them called you Mr. Lunch Box.”

He laughs, dragging a hand through his hair. “Nicknames are good.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. We didn’t know your real name. We had to call you something .”

“Fair enough. We called you Snoopy Lover. That was my sister’s nickname for you.”

I straighten my shoulders, preening a bit. “I like that you told them about me.”

“It didn’t take much for me to serve it all up. They knew the whole tale an hour or so after I met you.”

“You mean, right after we nearly pummeled each other for the lunch box?”

He shoots me a wry grin. “You did look like you’d be fierce in a fight.”

“I’m terrifying.” I hiss and brandish my nails as if they’re claws. “I’d have broken out all my street-fighting skills to take you down.”

He shrugs playfully. “I probably wouldn’t have objected to that. What other fighting styles do you know, just so I’m prepared?”

I press my finger to my lips. “Shh. Don’t be silly. A woman doesn’t give up all of her secrets. But yes, I do have my arsenal. And maybe someday I’ll tell you which ones.”

“First off, I love that you can fight. Second, I’m glad you didn’t try to take me down, because those boots are sexy as sin but look lethal as hell, and third, I’m psyched that my buds called me pathetic and made me get on the app, because I’m having a great time with you tonight.”

Those tingles? They sweep faster through me. They race along my skin. “Me too, Logan. Me too.”

He scrapes a hand across his jaw, his expression a bit nervous. Or maybe it’s not nerves, but a sense of freedom from this unbridled honesty. “You posting on Made Connections. Me posting on it. It’s sort of . . .”

“Kismet?”

A smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah. It does feel a little like kismet.”

The click of shoes echoes across the floor as the server returns. She sets down two drinks, a sprig of mint in each one. “And here are your Plot Twists. Enjoy.”

When she leaves, Logan lifts his glass, and I do the same.

“To moments,” he says. “To moments that might lead to more moments.”

The tingles inside me multiply once more. “And to not missing them.”

I take a sip, and my taste buds bow down and thank me for ordering this delicious drink. I actually moan out loud. “Mmm, that is delish.” I lick the corner of my lips, and when my eyes lock with his, I see that he’s watching me, his irises darkening.

“Yes, delicious,” he says, his voice a little hazy.

I don’t think he’s talking about the drink. I think he’s talking about the way my tongue just teased the corner of my mouth.

A part of me wants to end this date right now and cut to the next part of the night.

But I also don’t want to miss the dance. The fox-trot to the bedroom, if that’s where we’re going, should be danced to completion. “So, how did the lunch box go over?”

He gives a thumbs-up. “I’m dad of the year.”

“Excellent,” I say, taking another drink. “And she’s seven?”

He nods. “Yes, I’m divorced, and have been for two years.”

“Good to know. Because sometimes a guy says he is and then you meet him and it turns out, oh, he’s actually ‘separated.’ But by ‘separated,’ he means still living in the same house with his wife.”

Logan recoils. “That is not at all separated. That’s more like dating while deceiving.”

I tap my finger to my nose. “Bingo.”

“My ex is definitely the ex. She’s out of the house and already with someone else. And that’s why it ended.” He heaves a sigh. “Sorry, was I not supposed to say that? Is that too much? I haven’t gone on a lot of dates.”

I laugh, then reach a hand across the table and set it on his. “I’m fine with that, and I think at this point in my life—I’m thirty-two?—”

“Same.”

“—that I’d rather just be direct. I’m divorced too. He was jealous of anything I did without him, and he said that’s why he cheated.” I give a WTF shrug. “He’s with her now.”

“Mine said if I’d been home at five instead of seven, everything would have been different,” he says, sharing the what-the-fuckery. Logan lifts his glass again. “Their losses.”

I clink once more. “Our gains.” I lift the glass, then stop midair. “Actually, let’s drink to kismet.”

His smile is wildly sexy as he says, “I will definitely drink to that.”