Six of Hearts(52)

“You’re Matilda,” he says.

“Yeah, I am,” I reply stupidly.

He smiles. “I’m Owen.”

He pulls out my chair for me, very politely, and I sit. There’s a menu on the table, so I pick it up just to have something to do with my hands. A waiter goes by carrying a tray of drinks, and I wonder why I didn’t think to have one or two myself before coming here. Being tipsy would make my nervousness less obvious. Although being obviously drunk probably wouldn’t look so good, either.

“So, you’re the chef. What would you suggest I order?” I ask, trying to sound mature and confident. My voice sounds weird, even to my own ears.

Owen smiles. “Well, I don’t work here, but the chicken main sounds good.”

“I like chicken. Although, not the fake processed kind. It has the consistency of rubber.”

Did I just fucking say that? Kill me now.

It’s not a complete disaster, though, because Owen makes noises of agreement. “Yeah, that stuff is awful. I refuse to believe it’s actual chicken.”

That makes me laugh. “Oh, my God, what could it be? Do you think they’re feeding us spices and glue?”

Owen leans in, whispering, “It could be anything. But let’s not talk about it here. The walls have ears.”

I laugh even louder this time. This is actually going well. Colour me surprised. We talk for a while about our jobs, and I tell him all about my dressmaking. He seems alert and interested, which is a good sign. I’ve often gotten stuck talking to men in bars with Michelle, and their eyes would completely glaze over when I spoke about myself. And most of those glazed eyes were focused on my chest rather than my face.

Just after our food arrives, my phone beeps loudly with a message. I decide to ignore it, but Owen insists I check, since it could be something important. It’s not. It’s from Jay.

Sherlock Holmes at your Service: Watson, where do you keep your lawnmower?

Yeah, that’s what he programmed his name in as. I immediately correct it to a simple “Jay.”

Matilda: It’s in the shed. I’m not even going to ask what you want it for. P.S. I’m not keeping your name like that, you big geek.

Jay: In the shed now. Can’t find it. I want to mow the lawn, what else? Keep the name or face the consequences.

Matilda: Why are you bothering me with this? Can’t you ask Dad? I laugh in the face of your consequences.

Jay: He’s gone out. Laugh at my consequences, will you? I should spank you for your insolence.

I don’t know what to say to that, and I’m actually blushing. My finger hovers over the screen, trying to think of a clever response, when another message comes in.

Jay: I forgot to ask how your date’s going…?

Matilda: It would be going better if you weren’t so rudely interrupting it!

Jay: So it’s going good. Is he being a gentlemen? He better be. I don’t wanna have to go over there and whip out the fists of fury.

Smirking, I shove my phone back in my bag now, deciding I’ve left Owen waiting long enough. We continue with our conversation and our food, and my phone beeps several more times with messages. In the end, I turn it off. Whatever Jay wants, it can wait. Owen seems a little perplexed that I’m ignoring my phone. Great, now he probably thinks I’m a bitch who ignores her friends’ messages.

Our date ends, and Owen walks me to the bus stop. It turns out he walked to the restaurant since he lives close by. He quietly suggests we do this again sometime, and I smile at him as I agree. Then we exchange numbers. When my bus comes, he moves in for what could either be a kiss or a hug. My nerves get the better of me, and I hop quickly onto the bus, furiously waving goodbye like a dope.

God, that was awful. I think I might have just ruined the semi-success of the date with that stellar move. I’ll just have to wait and see if he calls.

As I ride the bus, I finally decide to check Jay’s messages.

Jay: Oh, come on, Watson. Don’t leave me hanging.

Jay: Still waiting…

Jay: He better not try to touch your boobies.

Jay: Fine. I know when I’m not wanted.

Jay: Only joking. Everybody wants me ;-)

When I get home, I see that the lawn hasn’t been mowed, so I know that Jay was either lying or he couldn’t find the lawnmower. The possibility that he couldn’t find it is ridiculously low, since our shed is tiny and the lawnmower is a huge orange contraption. This makes me annoyed, so I march my way up to his room, preparing to give him an earful. I don’t bother to knock; instead, I bulldoze my way in.

I should have knocked.

What I find is a topless Jay, sprawled out on the top of his bed, asleep. I stand there staring at him for longer than would be deemed appropriate. He has one muscular arm thrown up above his head, while the other rests along his torso, his hand on the cut “V” of his hip bone. I shiver just looking at him, a work of art in tattoos and muscles.