It’s the first we’ve spoken since falling into that surprisingly comfortable silence. I thought it would be awkward, sitting here without saying anything, like there would be all this pressure to speak, to be interesting, to do something.
But it was the opposite.
Somehow we combined the comfort of a long-time couple with the exciting newness of a first date. I’m not sure how normal this is.
The thought of being with somebody else does nothing for me, but I do wish I had a little more experience, so I’d know if this was normal. If this feeling is what everyone experiences on their first date.
“Sorry,” I murmur, after a long pause.
He chuckles. Every time he moves, laughs, or does anything I have to grip my hands tighter in my lap.
He’s a looming giant sitting next to me, wearing a pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show his sculpted forearms. His muscled chest pulls his shirt taut, his whole body seeming like it’s on the verge of erupting out of his clothes.
Or is that my imagination, bringing my wildest dreams to the forefront of my mind?
“You don’t have to apologize. I didn’t mean to ruin your daydreaming session.”
I giggle. It comes reflexively, prompted by his casual banter.
“It wasn’t a session.”
I won’t tell him I was thinking about him, about us.
I won’t tell him how difficult it is not to throw my arms around his shoulders and bring my lips to his.
He said he doesn’t go on many dates. He also said this isn’t charity.
What is it, then?
It doesn’t leave much, but I won’t allow myself to believe this is a real date.
“So?” he asks.
Oh, my blog.
“When I was a little kid, I always wanted to be a talk show host. I honestly couldn’t say why. It’s not like I’m the most confident person. Even back then… well, maybe when I was younger, maybe I had a little more confidence.”
My tone grows somber as I think of dad, of how it changed me. But I’m not about to torpedo our date with talk about all that.
“I used to watch them all the time,” I go on. “My favorites were the advice ones, either recorded or when the viewers could ask questions. I know they’re trashy, the drama ones, the sensationalist ones, but I still enjoyed them.”
“You sound like you know your stuff,” he says.
I beam under his praise. I find myself grinning from ear to ear, knowing I probably look more than a little loony. It’s the effect he has on me, prompting me to glow when he throws a kind comment my way.
For what feels like the millionth time, I caution myself to calm down, to slow down.
“I loved them,” I agree. “I didn’t like some of the meaner ones, but I liked the general idea, the rawness of it. Some of the time, the talking actually helped the person. They’d discuss it after, how their life improved. I wanted – want – to do the same.”
I pause, glancing over at him, expecting his face to be a picture of boredom. Instead, his intense eyes glint, looking at me instead of the road.
“But obviously you can’t just have a talk show. So I made the blog. I honestly didn’t think anybody would use it. I saved up for a couple of months and started using advertisements. That got the ball rolling, and now people really seem to like it.”
“That’s impressive,” he says, without any hint that he’s being sarcastic.
“Not as impressive as your career…”
“It’s impressive. You are impressive,” he says forcefully. “We don’t need to compare. You can say what you want about your lack of experience or the need to go on this date for research, but you clearly provide something for your fanbase. Even if it’s just helping them forget about their problems for a while. That’s no small thing, Penny.”
My cheeks burn like they’re going to catch on fire. I grin and focus on the road.
There’s so much emotion rising inside me, I might cry if I look too closely at him or if I take his words to heart.
He’s just being nice. Friendly to a woman half his age, with no romantic intent in mind.
What would he do if I gave in to these urges, reached over, and clasped my hand on his leg? If I squeezed onto his muscled thigh and then started moving up slowly, smoothing my hand higher and higher, until I came to his rock-solid cock?
But that’s where the fantasy crumbles.
He wouldn’t be aroused, not by me.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“A private restaurant,” he says. “I’ve booked us a room that overlooks the main part of the restaurant. That way…”
“You won’t get mobbed by paparazzi.”
He chuckles. It’s an intoxicating sound, making my head swim and my heart flutter.
“Those days are behind me, thankfully,” he says. “I get snapped from time to time. But mostly it’s regular people who recognize me. I enjoy it, taking photos with them, talking about the old days. But sometimes a man needs his space. Especially when he’s on a date.”