I told him that on a real first date I’d never let him pick me up at the door because he could be a serial killer. Or possibly just an annoying asshole who I wouldn’t want having my address. Or maybe the date would be so painfully bad that I’d have to bail early by secretly texting a friend to call me with a fake emergency and then I’d need my own car to get the hell out of there.
He stared at me without saying anything for a moment, his head tilted to the side and his fingers running across his jaw. Then we agreed that I’d overlook my normal first-date protocols this time, which is just as well because I don’t have sex on first dates either and I have no intention of sticking to that rule tonight.
I slide my feet into my favorite pair of sandals and am sliding earrings on when Jennings knocks at the door. I grin, suddenly stupid excited about tonight. It’s been forever since I went on a date with someone new and my stomach is filled with unexpected butterflies as I swing open the door. Butterflies that don’t settle when I see him. He’s showered as well, his hair clearly the slightest bit damp. He’s in another button-down shirt, which I haven’t seen him in since the first night. This one is white, the sleeves rolled back to mid-forearm, which I notice immediately because one arm is braced against the doorway and the other hand is holding flowers.
“Roses,” he says, holding them up. “I was going to get you daisies but then I figured every guy brings you daisies, but how many men can you possibly have given the alias Rose to?” He winks at me when he says it, confident that Rose is our thing, that I don’t go around giving out fake names to men. He’s correct.
“I’m glad they’re not daisies,” I tell him as I take them from his hand, almost laughing at the idea that every guy brings me flowers. My high-school boyfriend would buy me a single rose whenever there was a school fundraiser. Student council would deliver them to classrooms during second period and the girls would carry them from class to class for the remainder of the day. I’m sure if I opened an old yearbook I’d find one still pressed inside. One time I got a delivery at work from my ex. It was my birthday and I’m pretty sure he ordered them that morning for same-day delivery from a local florist because he’d forgotten, but it was still nice. But a parade of flowers? No.
He’s also correct about the daisies—Daisy has received them an unseemly number of times and she loves them, but they’re her, not me. Of course Jennings can’t know that, but I’m grateful that he thought of the roses. That he picked out something specific to the two of us. The last thing I’d have wanted was a bouquet of daisies staring me in the face reminding me of my big fat lie.
“They’re perfect, thank you,” I tell him as I grab the hotel-provided ice bucket and fill it with a few inches of water in the bathroom sink. I set it next to the television and stick the flowers inside. It’s not the right kind of container and they sort of slump to the side and yet it’s perfect. Perfectly imperfect.
“Ready?” he asks, but he’s directly behind me, running a fingertip down the exposed side of my neck. I shiver and turn to face him.
“I’m ready.”
“You look smashing, love.” He says it softly, his eyes dancing over my face, and I think he’s going to kiss me—he’s standing so close I can feel the heat of his body—but he simply takes my hand and leads me to the door. We hold hands all the way to the elevator, our fingers entwined and my pulse racing. I’m not entirely sure why. He’s not exactly new to me and this isn’t a real first date. It’s a third or fourth date at least, isn’t it? God, how many days ago was that first night? How is it that I already feel like I’ve known him forever? How have I forgotten a world before Jennings in less than a week? I’m tumbling head over heels like a foolish puppy tripping over its own feet.
Or a fool falling in love when this relationship has an expiration date shorter than the date on a carton of milk.
Is this real? Or an illusion brought on by close quarters and explosive chemistry? It’s so easy between us, but is it easy because it’s temporary? A trip to an amusement park is exhilarating for a day or two, but it would be a nightmare if you went every single day for an entire year, wouldn’t it? I bite my bottom lip and glance at him under my lashes. The elevator doors slide open and our hands part as we enter and he jabs the button for the lobby.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, love?” His head is tilted and one brow raised in question and I wonder how he knows to ask me this based on one quiet walk down a hallway.