“Are we on a date?” Brooklyn demands.
What a great question—and how like a New Yorker to go straight for the jugular.
The truth is, this is something I’ve been ruminating on, like Calvin’s cows do with the seaweed that washes onto the beach. Something about the seaweed makes them not fart, but I’m not sure I have anything to show for my ruminatory efforts because I’m as unprepared for Brooklyn’s question now as I would have been this morning.
Well, except for one thing.
I’ve realized that I want her—despite all the reasons for us not to be together.
I want her badly. I want her in my bed. I want her in my life. I want to take her to more new places, so I can see that excited expression on her face. Not to mention—
“I’ll take your silence as a no,” Brooklyn says.
Grr. I take the first exit I see, pull into the parking lot of the nicest-looking restaurant around, and then face her. “You’re wrong.”
She blinks at me. “I am?”
“I would like to go on a date with you.”
As she bats her eyelashes at me, I can’t help but notice how pretty they are. “I thought you didn't date tourists,” she says.
Good point. “But I can always make an exception for someone who’s that good at Scrabble.”
Seriously, though, I’m having trouble remembering why I came up with that stupid rule. In a way, having a time limit on the relationship means that I don't have to tell Brooklyn about my vasectomy and therefore see the disappointment on her face. The time limit also means no one should get hurt. Especially if—
“So… it’s a fling then?” she clarifies.
“Fling?” Yeesh. Why does the word bring the taste of the hangover cure to my mouth? “Do we have to put any labels on it? Let’s just have dinner.” I gesture at the rando place.
“Okay.” She opens the car door. “Let’s just have dinner.”
After we sit down, the waiter dude walks over to us and sighs. “I’m not giving you any menus.”
Hmm. Weird.
“Why not?” Brooklyn asks.
“We only have ingredients for a single item—a burger.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Before you ask, that doesn’t mean cheeseburger, or a chickenburger, or a fish burger, or a veggie burger. Just a beef burger, with fries. That’s it. No bacon. No—”
Brooklyn and I exchange confused glances.
“You want a burger?” I ask her, sounding uncertain.
“Do you?” she asks.
“Sure.” I don’t, but I don’t want to start this dinner by being a dick to the waiter… even if it seems like he might deserve it.
“Two burgers,” Brooklyn says. “You do have enough ingredients for two, right?”
Oh, yeah. He did make that burger sound pretty singular earlier. This attention to detail is why Brooklyn is so good at Scrabble.
“We can make two more burgers,” the waiter says, but he doesn’t sound all that sure. “They will have to be without any lettuce or tomato. Oh, and there’s only one pickle left.”
Damn it. Is it too late to—
“We’re okay sharing that last pickle,” Brooklyn says. When the waiter leaves, she whispers, “Doesn’t it feel like we’re in a pickle?”
I glance at a nearby table where the waiter is bringing an older lady her food—a burger, of course. As soon as he leaves, she pulls out a slice of American cheese from her purse and furtively sticks it under the bun.
“Wow,” Brooklyn whispers, following my gaze. “They lack cheese and other accoutrements so often that the regulars bring their own.”
I lean in. “Either that or this lady carries cheese everywhere she goes.”
Brooklyn leans toward me as well. “I would’ve brought a tomato in her shoes.”
Wow. We’re so close I feel trapped by her gravitational field. Again. My eyes zero in on her lips, and I’m slowly drawn toward them. But before I reach my destination, Brooklyn pulls away with a chuckle.
“I just realized that I made it sound like I want us to use that lady as a mule,” she says. “By forcing her to hide a tomato in her shoes.”
I smile, partially to hide my kiss-deprivation disappointment. “I give it a few days before the waiter starts to check everyone’s shoes for contraband.”
Brooklyn snorts, but before I can make any more jokes at the waiter’s expense, he’s back with two plates.
Hey, one benefit of there not being any choices is that the one item they do have comes out pretty fast. And it smells good.
“Can I have a fork?” Brooklyn points at the French fries on her plate.
“We don’t have forks,” the waiter states.
“Hmm,” Brooklyn says. “Do you have a spork or a spoon?”
“We don’t have spoons,” the waiter deadpans. “And no sporks.”
Brooklyn sighs. “All right, I guess.”
When the waiter leaves, she asks, “Are we still tipping that guy?”
“Hold that thought,” I say. “There are better questions that have to be answered first.”
She rolls her eyes. “Let me guess: Who eats fries with a fork?”
“Oh, that one will have to wait its turn,” I say with a grin. “I’m much more curious as to what you would have done with a spoon.”
Her shoulders bob. “I don’t like grease on my fingers. Sue me.”
“But a spoon—”
“Can work in a pinch,” she says. “If you’re willing to mush the fries, that is.”
“Yuck. Fine. What about the burger?”
She straightens her spine. “What about it?”
“Do you hold the burger in your hands, or eat it with a fork, like a pervert? And how would you eat it with a spoon?”
With a small eyeroll, she grabs the burger and takes a big bite.
“Very mature,” I say and follow her lead.
Wow. It’s a good, juicy burger.
She must like it too because she arches an eyebrow at me before she grabs a handful of fries and stuffs them in after the burger, fingers dripping with grease. “Is this what you wanted?” she demands.
“Umm. Is it weird that it’s actually hot?”
“Very,” she says.
“Oh, well. It is.” And I’m not lying one bit.
Grinning, she devours her food and excuses herself to go wash the grease off her hands.
I visit the men’s room as well, figuring that since she has a thing against grease, I’d better rid myself of mine so as not to gross her out when I touch her. Wait, what am I saying? You don’t want greasy hands in general.
When I get back to the table, Brooklyn is there, and so is the check.
I sigh. She’s pitched in half the money.
“I know we’re not putting labels on things,” I say. “But we did say this was a date—and when I take someone out, I insist on paying.”
Her expression turns mutinous. “And when is it going to be my turn to take you out?”
Grr. I wasn’t going to do this, but given that we’re on a date after having spent the night together, it’s best to put this out in the open.
“I’d rather it never be your turn,” I say. “But not because I’m trying to be one of those guys. It’s more because I want to take you to pricey places that have more than burgers on the menu—places that would be trivial for me to afford, but that might strain your wallet.”
She huffs. “How much do you make from that Airbnb?”
“It’s not just that,” I say. “Or the land I own. My grandpa also left me money—money that I invested in Octothorpe stock at a very opportune time.”
Forehead furrowing, she displays her slender wrist to me. “I have an Octothorpe Glorp.”
“Ah. Yeah. Octothorpe also makes lots of other technology,” I say. Then, in case she hasn’t heard, I add, “Their stock grew exponentially after the company went public. They are worth more than Apple, Google, Amazon, and Microsoft combined. And they gave early investors their cryptocurrency as a—”
“You’re super rich?” she asks, eyes wide.
I shrug. “What’s considered super rich?”
Grudgingly, she picks up her cash. “A millionaire?”
“I’m not actually sure if I’m still a millionaire. Not after the recent market shift.” I take my phone out to check my portfolio. “Yep. Apparently, I’ve just crossed into billionaire territory.”
She drops the bills she picked up. “A billionaire?”
The cheese lady looks pointedly our way.
I shift in my seat uncomfortably. “Why not post it on social media while you’re at it?”
“Sorry,” Brooklyn says in a softer voice. “I’m just wrapping my brain around it. No offense, but you don’t seem like a billionaire at all.”
Right. She thought I was a plumber. Teasingly, I ask, “Do I have to buy the obligatory private jet for you to believe me?”
“Or a limo,” she says. “Or a mansion.”
I pick up her cash and hand it back to her. “I told you. I want a simple life. A farm by the ocean. That’s about it.”
“That’s crazy,” she says. “How can someone who’s got all this money not want to spend it?”
“I do spend it,” I say. “I donate to causes I believe in. Whenever my dad or I want something, I buy whatever it is without a second thought. I guess he and I just don’t really need much to be happy, but I believe that goes for everyone else too. A person just needs some basic minimum income to pay all their bills and do their hobbies and things like that, but after that, more money doesn’t do much.” I take a deep breath before admitting in a quieter voice, “No amount of money was able to save my mom.”
Shit. Why did I go there?
There’s pity in Brooklyn’s eyes, which wasn’t my intention. But then she covers my hand with hers, and that feels nice. It brings me out of the temporary funk I got into.
“So.” I clear my throat. “Will you finally let me pay for the dates I take you on?”
She nods. “But on one condition: you have to let me groom your pets as a thank-you.”
I wince. “Sure, but only Harry. Sally would slice your veins open if you tried.”
She sits up. “You let me worry about Sally.”
“Those”—I drop a wad of cash on the table—“are famous last words.”
“I’m curious about something,” Brooklyn says as we start driving. “But it’s not a polite question.”
I glance at her. “Is it polite to tease someone the way you’re doing right now?”
“Fine. You’re attractive.”
“Thanks,” I say with a grin.
“And obscenely rich,” she adds.
“And?” I think I know where this is going.
“How come you’re single?” she demands, confirming my suspicion. “When I think ‘billionaire,’ I think ‘arm candy.’”
I grin. “Like you.”
“I’m serious,” she says, but she doesn’t look very serious.
“My being rich isn’t really a variable when it comes to my dating life,” I say. “I don’t share that fact with a lot of people in general, but especially not with women.”
Except this one.
Once again, she looks at me like I’ve grown a dick outside of the usual location. “Why not?”
“I’m not interested in women who’d want a man for his money,” I say.
“Oh.” She scratches her head. “I guess that makes sense.”
Should I tell her about my inability to give someone a child? I doubt a better chance will present itself. “Why are you single?” I ask instead. “You’re smart, funny, attractive, and—”
“Don’t try to change the subject,” she says.
“Right back at you.”
“Forget it. I’ve just figured out why you’re single. You’re an ass.”
“Huh. I think it’s the opposite for you.”
Her eyebrow asks the obvious question.
“Your nice ass is why I can’t believe you’re single.”
She chuckles but steers the conversation away, which is just fine with me. Instead, by the time we reach my community, I’ve learned that she describes people in terms of dog breeds they resemble, and I’ve told her how easily I can get hangry—case in point, our initial meeting.
“Yeah, I get like that when I have my period,” she blurts as we pull up to my driveway. “Which was the case that day.”
Oh. “That explains things.”
Her eyes go squinty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I put the car in park, jump out, and open the door for her. “I’m just kidding.”
She takes my proffered hand. “I am too.”
As we touch, a montage of the events from last night plays in front of my eyes (or is it my dick?), and I’m instantly hard.
“So.” Brooklyn glances at the rental and then at my place. “What happens after a date without labels?”
“This.” I claim her lips with a kiss.