I just know it.
I glance towered the entrance once more for any sign of them, then back at Cecelia, who has begun eating her meal again, naively unaware of the fact that she’s been ditched. How am I going to break this to her?
Slowly cutting in to the filet mignon on her plate with a sharp steak knife, eyes on her plate, Cecelia is the first one to break the suddenly awkward silence first. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
I hesitate. “Um…”
“It’s okay Matthew. You can say it.”
“Fine. I’m pretty sure they’re gone.”
Cecelia blows her bangs out of her eyes and taps the table with her steak knife, then nods matter-of-factly. “Obviously I’m gonna need a ride…”
“Yup.”
“Hitching a ride with you obviously makes more sense than my having to call Molly or Abby for a lift, I suppose…”
My chest puffs out a little, indignantly. “Hey, you don’t have to sound so put out about it. I’ll have you know, chicks line up to date me.”
Cecelia’s face contorts up and now she’s staring like I’ve just admitted to having an STD. “Yuck. Your arrogance is only a small part of your problem…” Her voice trails off, and instead of nagging she crosses her arms and huffs, exasperated. Soon, she lets out another sigh and begins cutting another piece of filet. “What a waste of a perfectly good Diane Von Furstenberg top...”
“Excuse me? Von What?”
“Nevermind.” Shaking her head, she sighs again. “So. Any idea why they would do this? I mean, obviously you came here to ruin my date, but it makes no sense as to why Neve would leave me here with you.”
“Believe me, this was not the plan.”
“I mean, I totally get why Stacy would want to run off with him. He’s so hot…”
“Uh huh.”
“…and he is so funny.”
“Yup. Got it. He’s good looking and funny.”
“And he’s soooo nice.”
“Okay, feel free to stop gushing any time here. I hate to be a cold bucket of reality here, but he did just ditch you.”
“Would you shut up? I would be on a damn date right now if you hadn’t shown up. This is. All. Your. Fault.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa - you’re not the only victim here! My date left too.”
“Oh puh-leez! Admit it. She wasn’t even a real date. No guy would purposefully subject himself to her for an entire night - not even you, not even for a quick lay. This, my friend, was a carefully orchestrated move to sabotage my date. I mean, what the hell did you think was going to happen? Or didn’t you give it any thought? You are such a colossal douche bag.”
“I resent that implication.”
“But you don’t deny it.”
“Excuse me, but Stacy’s amazing rack is one of her redeeming qualities.”
“Oh shut up for once, Matthew.” Cecelia juts her bottom lip and her eyes narrow, deep in thought. She sit up straight in her chair and begins tapping the edge of the dinner table with her forefinger. “Actually... something just occurred to me…”
“What?”
“Pfft,” she scoffs, grinning at me. “Like I’m telling you. But trust me, you’ll find out soon enough…”
Definitely not liking the sound of that.
Cecelia
It occurs to me I could use this whole night as blackmail. Okay, so maybe I wouldn’t call it blackmail… not exactly…
I would consider it more - a future plan for “creatively suggesting Matthew do things for me while holding tonight’s evening over his head.” Yeah. That has a nice ring to it – much better than blackmail. Or extortion. Or coercion. Or whatever you want to call it.
It would be like an exchange of softs: In exchange for favors, I won’t rat him out to his mother. Or sister. Thus, sparing his life from becoming one continuous, nagging, familial bitch-fest.
Oh, who am I trying to kid – I would never actual do it. Sadly, I’m all talk and no action, although the idea does have merit.
I glance over at Matthew’s profile in the dimly lit cabin of his meticulously maintained Tahoe, taking in his chiseled, slightly scruffy jaw… the nose that looks like it’s been broken more than a few times, the scars lining his brow, and the backwards baseball cap he threw on as soon as he climbed behind the steering wheel.
The whole truck reeks of male, including the lingering smell of his musty cologne.
Full disclosure: It also reeks from a dirty duffle of gym clothes haphazardly tossed in the back seat. I noticed them when I first scrambled in, mostly because it freaking reeks - but I’ll give him a pass on that since he’s an athlete.
Either way, there is no denying it: Matthew Wakefield is all. Guy.
I give his space – and him - one last covert sniff before turning my head to look out the window. I am one hundred percent determined to ignore him.
Except, apparently, he’s determined not to let me. “Hey.” Matthew’s deep baritone rises out of the silence. “I’m beginning to feel like a chauffeur. Aren’t you gonna talk? Chew my ass out or something?”