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Mike followed Charlotte up the stairs to the second floor of the bar, remembering how, only five days ago, they’d gone upstairs at Nautilus and found that weird science lab.
Two days in a week with Charlotte. He felt lucky.
Today, she’d planned everything. For dinner, they’d gone out for hot pot, and now they were at this bar. He wasn’t sure what was special about it, but Charlotte had insisted he’d like it.
She grabbed his hand and led him to two stools at the bar.
“What do you think?” she asked, holding up a container.
Mike couldn’t respond. He was too distracted by the fact that he was sitting right next to her. He knocked his foot against hers, just because he could. He wanted to lean over and kiss her, but he’d save that for later.
She’d kissed him, though, on the walk here, and he’d told her that he was thrilled she was keeping up with her homework.
Finally, he focused on what was in her hand. It looked like a container that had once held frozen juice concentrate, now decorated with colored Popsicle sticks. Inside, there were crayons, and the bar was covered in butcher paper.
“Is this for drawing?” he asked stupidly.
“Yep. Over there”—she pointed at the far wall—“they display some of the cool things people have drawn over the years.”
“They don’t just draw colorful dicks?”
Charlotte flushed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I was just noticing what the people at the other end of the bar were doing.” He tilted his head to the right, at the group of guys who were drawing dicks in green and purple and laughing like they were so clever. They couldn’t be older than twenty-five.
Mike and Charlotte each ordered a beer, and then he went to the wall of fame to look at what other customers had drawn. There was some truly spectacular art. A few portraits—hard to believe they’d been done with crayons. The Toronto skyline. An elephant.
Mike reminded himself that he didn’t need to do anything spectacular. He was just supposed to have fun.
He returned to his seat and started drawing a kraken attacking a pirate ship. He and Charlotte drew together in silence for a few minutes, like they’d done so many times as children.
“Remember the day we met?” he said. “The day I moved in next door.”
She nodded. “I was drawing with chalk on my driveway.”
“You were drawing butterflies, if I remember correctly.”
“Dear God, don’t remind me that I used to be obsessed with butterflies.”
“And I asked if I could draw with you. You said okay, and you pointed to the far end of the driveway and said that was my spot.”
She laughed. “Yeah, I made you go as far away from me as possible.”
But he hadn’t cared. She was letting him draw with her, and that was enough for a boy who’d never been allowed to draw on the driveway before. “You complimented my tiger. I was very pleased.”
“It was a fine tiger.”
“Though you expressed skepticism that tigers could smile.”
“Yeah, that part was a bit far-fetched.”
That had been the beginning of their friendship, which had, especially at the beginning, included a lot of drawing. Always at her house. Charlotte had better art supplies, and at her place, nobody ever said their drawings were stupid. Her parents appreciated her interests and stuck her best drawings on the fridge. They seemed to like him, too, because he and Charlotte would draw quietly and play with Lego and never cause trouble.
To his parents, on the other hand, he was a constant disappointment. They complained that he was making them look bad, how could he do this to them? When they had come to this country for their children? He was always in trouble, often for tiny things, like making a mistake when he practiced piano. Or for things he hadn’t even done, though they’d convince him that he had and force him to apologize.
He glanced at the Popsicle-stick crayon holder. He’d made something similar at school once and given it to his dad for Father’s Day, because that was what his teacher had said they should do.
His teacher had praised his work, but his father had said it was ugly.
“Mike?” Charlotte said, pausing in her drawing. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“If you don’t want to draw, we don’t have to. Or we can go somewhere else.”
“No, no. I need to finish this kraken.”
She placed her hand on his upper leg and squeezed, and her nearness wiped thoughts of his past out of his mind. She smelled like hot pot, and he was sure he did, too; the smell tended to linger.
He worked on his kraken for a while, though it was hard to focus when she kept her hand on his leg. God, it really didn’t take much, did it?
“I like your ship,” she said, leaning over. “Too bad it’s going to be demolished by the kraken and end up at the bottom of the ocean.”
She planted a kiss on his cheek, and he turned toward her so he could kiss her on the lips, just once. Okay, maybe twice. He wasn’t going for a full make-out session in front of the bartender, but it was hard to resist Charlotte.
He couldn’t believe he got to kiss her.
And even though he was hardly an expert at such things and had mostly been talking out of his ass when he gave her “lessons,” she still thought he was a good person to teach her about dating.
She’d always believed in him.
Charlotte, I want you for real.
It wasn’t the right time to tell her. Not yet.
He was about to draw some eyes for the kraken—and maybe he’d make the kraken smile, just to give Charlotte a laugh—when he noticed what she was drawing.
“Is that an eggplant?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.
A long eggplant, like ones he’d get from the Chinese grocer and use in stir-fries.
She looked down and stilled. As though she hadn’t realized what she’d been drawing, her mind focused on something else while her hand moved of its own accord. She flushed again and covered her drawing with one hand.
Yep, she was thinking about it.
He glanced at the far end of the bar. The guys drawing dicks had left, but the dicks remained on the butcher paper. The largest of their dicks was purple, and there were balls with a few wiry red hairs at the base of it.
He turned back to Charlotte’s drawing and moved her hand out of the way.
“Why are you thinking about eggplant?” he asked.
“Because I’m craving eggplant parmesan.”
“We just had hot pot. And why are you drawing a whole eggplant, not eggplant parmesan?”
She shrugged. “Because it’s difficult to draw eggplant parmesan.”
“That never stopped you from trying to draw something before.”
“I’m thirty-two now. Not six. I’ve changed.”
“Yeah,” he said softly, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “You have.”
* * *
Charlotte’s skin felt prickly and hot and uncomfortable.
Mike had made her aware of the fact she had needs. Needs that hadn’t been fully satisfied in a long time. Sure, she did her best alone in her bedroom, but she was suddenly aware of how it would be astronomically better with him.
And now she found herself drawing stars on the butcher paper.
At least that was better than an eggplant. Why the fuck had she drawn an eggplant?
Well, she knew exactly why, and it had nothing to do with eggplant parmesan.
Even before Mike had whispered in her ear, she’d had...certain thoughts. While he’d been working on his kraken attacking a pirate ship—and occasionally looking at the bottles behind the bar with a glazed expression—she’d mostly been looking at him. Admiring. With every additional second, she found him even more attractive. Sometimes the longer you stared at something, the less sense it made.
But with Mike, things just became clearer.
Namely, the fact that he was really freaking handsome, and she had this weird urge to grab his arm muscles.
So, she hadn’t been paying much attention to what she was drawing. Just doodling on the paper like she’d doodled during lectures in university.
Except in university, she’d mostly drawn geometric patterns.
“Are those balls?” Mike asked.
“They’re apples, not balls,” she protested.
“Of course,” he murmured. “The eggplant has fruit for balls. Only sensible. But they look more like peaches to me.” He smirked at her. “What were you thinking about?”
“Nothing! Absolutely nothing.”
“Sure, I believe you.”
“Stop doing that.”
“What am I doing?” he asked.
“You know what you’re doing. Pissing me off.”
“I think it’s amusing that you chose to draw an eggplant instead of, I don’t know, a smiling tiger.”
“I wasn’t thinking about what I was drawing. It just happened.”
“Ah. Your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”
“I hate you.” She crossed her arms over her chest like a petulant child.
“Nah, I think you like me very much and you’re curious about my—”
“Don’t say it!” she yelped.
“I know, I know. ‘Eggplant’ is such a dirty word. I shouldn’t say it aloud.”
“You’re supposed to be giving me dating lessons.”
“I am. We’re flirting again.”
She supposed they were. She bit her lower lip, just like he’d shown her on their first date.
His eyes, laser-focused on her lips, darkened.
Pleasure—and power—surged through her.
But then he snatched that power away by licking his lips. Slowly, obscenely. She imagined him doing that after he’d gone down on her.
She gasped.
God, he wasn’t even touching her!
Then he placed his hand on her leg, above her knee. A simple touch that felt anything but simple; she was filled with an overwhelming need to get out of here.
“Let’s go,” she said, then chugged the last third of her beer.
“But I haven’t finished my kraken.”
“Fuck your kraken.”
He shot her a look of mock outrage. “How dare you! At least let me add one more thing.” He grabbed a purple crayon—which she’d used to draw that mortifying eggplant—and added a smile to his kraken.
She snorted before grabbing his hand and leading him down the stairs and out to the streets. It was a cool night for August, but her skin felt hot. Fortunately, she knew this area well, and there was a parkette nearby. She dragged him into the parkette and onto a bench that faced away from the street.
And then she kissed him. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her mouth against his. He immediately dove into the kiss with enthusiasm and slid his hands into her hair.
Oh. That felt good, but it wasn’t enough. She climbed onto his lap, not breaking the kiss.
“Still craving eggplant parmesan?” he asked. “Or are you craving something else?”
“Yes, I’m craving you, you dumbass.”
She returned to kissing him, arching against his body as her hands slipped under the hem of his shirt. She’d touched him like this last weekend.
But today, he also slid his hands under her shirt, and she froze.
Noticing her reaction, he started to withdraw, but she clamped her hands on his wrists.
“I’m not used to this,” she said. “It’s been a while. But I want you to touch me. Yes.”
“Here?” He toyed with the bottom of her bra.
“Yeah.”
He eased his hand under one of her bra cups, brushing a callused finger over her nipple.
Had her nipples always been this sensitive, and she’d merely forgotten because it had been so long since someone else had touched them?
“Are my hands too rough?” he asked.
“No, no,” she said quickly, not wanting him to stop. “Though why are they rough? It can’t be related to your job.”
“From the gym.”
She took this as an invitation to feel his biceps, but then he brushed his finger over her nipple again, and she couldn’t help squirming on his lap.
“I can feel your eggplant!” she exclaimed.
He turned away from her and barked out a laugh.
God, she was so bad at this. That was why she needed these lessons.
“Sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t sexy. I know. Rule seventy-three: Don’t shout ‘I can feel your eggplant!’ while making out with a guy.”
“What are the first seventy-two rules?”
“I don’t know. Shut up and kiss me?”
Amusement danced in his eyes. They were doing that twinkling thing again.
He returned to kissing her and running his hands under her shirt. Her back, her stomach, and then her breasts. Somehow, his hands were just the right size, and when she shuddered in response to him squeezing her breast as he stroked her nipple, his body answered with a shudder of its own.
She needed to touch him there. He would be hot and hard for her and—
“...and then he projectile vomited and it was awesome.”
“Dude, listen to you, using words like ‘projectile.’ That’s some fancy-ass physics shit.”
It was a bunch of guys walking past. Young guys, like the ones who’d drawn penises on the butcher paper.
She suddenly remembered they were on a park bench, a meter from the sidewalk of a major street.
She jumped up.
“You okay?” Mike asked.
“Yeah. Just remembered where we are.”
“What do you want to do about that?”
Was he suggesting they go back to his place? Or hers? His place would be better because she didn’t have condoms, though maybe he had some in his wallet...
“I, uh...I have to think about this,” she said. “We should head home now. Separately. In case that wasn’t clear.”
“It’s totally cool, Charlotte. Let’s go to the subway.”
He took her hand and guided her to the nearest subway station. Good thing he had his wits about him—she barely knew where they were.
His hand was on hers. His hand that had, just a minute ago, been on her breast.
She nearly made an embarrassing sound. She wanted him. She could go home with him.
No. She had to give herself time to think this through. That would be sensible.
Right?