Love Hacked (Knitting in the City #3)(16)
Author: Penny Reid

“Is that the only reason?”

“No. He’s not—I mean, I’m looking for someone who’s life partner material. He’s more like one-nighter material.”

“So you two already…?”

“No, Thomas.” I brought my attention back to him. “We haven’t already….”

“Well, why not, if he’s meant to be temporary? Why delay gratification?” He sounded almost anxious.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, my face a mirror of my confused emotions. “I don’t know what happened. We went out, we had a great time—some parts were weird—but then he just kissed me goodnight and left. And I was so confused about what I wanted when he walked me home. I was flustered.” Not to mention the fact that Alex knew where I lived without me telling him.

“You were flustered?” Now he sounded completely shocked.

“Yes. I was. And that was also weird. Everything was weird.”

“Stop using the word weird. You do your vocabulary no justice.”

“Fine—strange, odd, unusual, atypical, inscrutable, eccentric.”

He placed his glasses back on his nose and nodded. “I don’t see the problem.”

“The problem is, now I don’t know what to do. We had a great date. He ended it with a kiss.”

What I left unsaid: He knows where I live, he behaves erratically, he hasn’t been vetted for a relationship and I like him too much, he called me beautiful, I can’t read him, and he has another girl on the side.

“And you’re worried he wants more than a fling?”

I thought about that and dismissed it as ridiculous. If he wanted more than a fling, then he wouldn’t have his Tuesday lady friend. “No. It’s definitely not that. The problem is that I don’t know how to proceed. How do I move forward? How do I take things to the next level?”

Thomas studied me with a narrowed stare.

When he said nothing, I added, “And by next level I mean sweaty, naked, animalistic….”

“Yes, yes. I know what you mean.” He threw his hands in the air and batted them about—removing my words from the airspace between us.

“What do I do? How does a woman tell a guy she’s ready to get on with it?”

“Are you really asking me?”

“Yes. And I can’t believe I don’t already know the answer. I feel like, at my age, I should know how to do this.”

“Why? Have you ever done it?”

“No.” I answered simply. I supposed he had a good point. In my past relationships, it had always been the guy pushing for the next level.

“Well, I should think it’s quite simple. The next time you see him make sure you’re wearing something shockingly inappropriate. Then, you know,” Thomas shrugged and fiddled with his silverware, “flirt.”

***

“Hi, uh, hi, hi, hello?”

“Yes?” Mr. Patel’s voice greeted me from the other end.

I cleared my throat and wished my phone had a cord so I could twist it. “Yes, hi. I’d like to place an order for takeout.”

“Okay, name?”

“Sandra Fielding.”

“Go ahead whenever you’re ready.”

I swallowed. “Um, I’ll have the butter chicken and garlic naan.”

“Okay…that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be ready in fifteen minutes. You pay when you get here?”

“Yes. That’s fine.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Wait—wait.” I closed my eyes. “Is Alex working tonight?”

“Yes. He’s working.”

“Oh, okay. Okay. Thanks.”

“Okay, bye.”

“Bye.”

As I hung up the phone, I wondered why, in matters of the heart, even confident, highly educated professionals are reduced to behaving like awkward adolescents.

I’d turned down an invitation from one of my friends, Jeff, and his wife, Ellen, so that I could stay in and prepare for my vampy attack. Jeff and I had dated some years ago. After he’d worked through his childhood trauma, he’d met and married the lovely Ellen. They were expecting their first child. I was going to be the Godmother.

I was ready to pick up the food. I’d spent the last several hours of my Saturday afternoon preparing. The clothes scattered about my bedroom were proof. Wearing something scandalously inappropriate to pick up takeout during a Chicago winter was exceedingly difficult. In the end, I decided my legs were going to have to sell it, so I settled on lace patterned thigh high stockings paired with sleek, black high heels.

Under the mammoth coat, I wore a baggy long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts. Not the sexiest attire, but when I couldn’t decide on anything to wear, I figured the chances of taking off my coat in the restaurant were minimal. Therefore, I might as well be comfortable.

I waited on my couch, watched the clock, tried to knit. After ten of the longest minutes in the history of the universe, I left for the restaurant.

I didn’t wear my hood because it wasn’t a windy night, and I’d done my hair. It fell in soft waves around my face; I’d achieved the careless tousled look after hours of careful machinations. My makeup was, if the magazine instructions I’d used as a guide were to be believed, stunningly sensual.

In truth, I was nervous. I reminded myself of something my mother liked to say, which I believe wholeheartedly: Nervous is a neighbor to worry—and worry is an emotional state that I abhor. It tends to be self-absorbed and shortsighted, and holds no purpose other than to waste energy and distract the mind from what actually matters.

As I opened the door to the restaurant, I reminded myself of the worst thing that could happen: he would reject me and my vampy advances. It would sting; but the world would continue to spin, I’d wear the Wookie costume with pride, and I’d get over it.

The place was packed, so I stood by the reception stand as I entered. I was glad that I’d called for takeout instead of trying to dine in. I saw Shirra—the other member of the wait staff—jumping between tables, delivering food, taking orders. A further scan of the space revealed Alex, dressed in all black as usual. His back was to me, and he was talking with a table of women.

Younger women.

Like, his age.

Their faces were rapt, adoring. I didn’t think they could be any more mesmerized if he’d been naked.

“Sandra?”

I turned toward the sound of my name and found smiling Shirra with a takeout bag and a check.

“You’re Sandra, right?”

I nodded. “Yep, that’s me,” and pulled cash from my pocket.

She accepted the twenty then began rifling through her apron for change.

“Nah, don’t worry about it.” I waved her off. “Keep the change.”

I returned her smile with a genuine one of my own—because I couldn’t help but laugh at myself.

I cast one last glance at Alex, his back still to the door, and I didn’t even try to contain my bubble of laughter as I left the restaurant without ever being seen.

I wasn’t completely ridiculous.

I don’t think people can be completely ridiculous unless they take themselves too seriously. I was only slightly ridiculous. But I knew that already.

Yes, I was disappointed. Yes, I was a tad embarrassed. But I was also an eternal optimist. Despite my hours of work preparing to pick up takeout and then never being noticed, the evening had several bright spots.

First, I’d learned how to apply stunningly sensual makeup.

Second, I now had a great story for my knitting group on Tuesday.

The best stories, I feel, are those that are self-deprecating and involve some thread of irony. This story had both of these elements. I had high hopes that the ladies would be bent over in laughter if not snorting tequila from their noses when they heard about my ineffectual antics.

This thought warmed me as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I chuckled to myself as I unlocked the door then admired my legs in the full-length hall mirror. They looked truly fantastic in the stockings. Maybe I would wear my current outfit—baggy shirt, sleep shorts, silky stockings, sleek heels—on Tuesday, so they could get the full effect of my dashed hopes.

As I set the takeout bag on my coffee table and removed the contents, I considered that they wouldn’t get the full effect because there was no way I was going to do my hair again.

I flipped on my TV then the TiVo, and pressed the button for Netflix. I then divided my attention between the food on the table and browsing for just the right movie to suit my mood.

The fact that I saw the white piece of paper was something of a miracle. It snagged my attention—an eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch sheet folded into neat fourths and stuffed between layers of naan.

I frowned at it, plucked it from the bread, blinked, and said aloud to the empty room, “Hmm. What’s this?”

It was a little greasy, but the words were perfectly legible.

Sandra,

Meet me back here at 11:15. Wear the red dress. All other clothing is optional.

Alex

CHAPTER 8

I put a kibosh on overanalyzing the situation.

This was what I’d wanted. I was going to go get him…and it. So I changed into the red dress at eleven o’clock, left on the stockings and shoes, and lightened my makeup. I figured the fish was already caught; no use looking like a makeup-smudged he**in addict after the illicit act.