The next morning, I was in a coffee shop, sitting across from a guy getting nonstop stares from the businesswomen, as much for his biker-patch leather jacket as for his rugged good looks. The first time we'd met, I thought Ricky reminded me of a blond young Marlon Brando without the angst. I'd even speculated there'd be a cleft chin when he shaved his stubble. There was. There was also a dimple, showing up when I walked in and he fixed me with a grin that made me stutter-step . . . and nearly bolt back out the door.
Lydia had said that Ricky was even harder to resist in person. She was right. Fortunately, that grin, as dazzling as it was, said only, I'm glad to see you.
"Hey." He stood as I walked over. No hug. No squeeze on the arm. Just standing, as if that's what you should do when a woman walked to your table, though you didn't go so far as to pull out her chair, suggesting she couldn't handle it herself. I swear every woman around us sighed a little.
I just smiled and said, "Hey," back.
"What can I get you?" he asked.
"I can--"
"My invitation. My treat. And if you feel guilty about that, you can get it next time." Another flash of a grin. "Which means there has to be a next time. See? I have it all worked out."
"A mocha, please."
He was back in a minute, setting it down and swinging into his chair with, "So you have to work at three, right?"
"I do."
"Plenty of time, but I'll watch the clock to be sure. What are you up to these days?"
I told him, and he earned the distinction of being the first person who didn't react like I was punishing myself by working in the diner. He understood. His life might seem radically different from mine, but it wasn't really. We'd both been raised in a successful family business, where it was expected that if you wanted a job, that's where you'd work, and if you wanted to just focus on your studies, that was fine, too. We were also both only children raised by a devoted father--as healthy a father-child relationship as you could ask for, whether Daddy owned a landmark department store or ran a notorious biker gang. Ricky's mother wasn't in the picture. He didn't go into detail, but it seemed she was a doctor in Philadelphia. He saw her now and then, and they had a good relationship, but she was more like a distant aunt.
The only thing that kept it from being a perfect coffee break was Ricky's phone, which kept buzzing. He hit Ignore every time, but it was almost nonstop, and he finally apologized.
"I'd turn the damned thing off, but my dad needs to be able to get hold of me at any time. Club rules. If he calls, I have to take it. Otherwise, it's just birthday wishes."
"Birthday? You mean it's your . . . ? Shit. I'm sorry. I would never have suggested today--"
"Um, pretty sure I suggested it. I don't have plans until tonight, and then it's just take-Ricky-to-dinner-and-embarrass-the-hell-out-of-him."
"Do they make the servers sing 'Happy Birthday'?"
"Probably. Most of the guys have known me since I was in diapers. To some of them I still am."
"And how old are you?"
A pause.
"Ah, so you aren't telling?"
"No, just . . . I'm probably not as old as you think I am." When I didn't reply right away, he said, "Uh-huh. That's what I thought."
"Sorry, I'm . . . just surprised. It doesn't matter, of course."
"Because you aren't planning to go out with me. But if you were considering it, that would be fine, because two years is not a big age gap. And yes, I know how old you are."
"So you just turned twenty-three?"
"That's not two years."
"Wel
l, I'll be twenty-five this fall, so if you're twenty-two today, that means you're actually two and a half years younger--"
"You stop counting half years at three. That's the rule."
"Is it?"