Oh. That sounds like a better option…
I slam the door in his face instead.
I am in Jordan’s fancy Range Rover, sitting on the passenger seat with a black, floral-print dress on that I love, wearing no bra and no panties. Oh, and I have on my only pair of stiletto sandals, shoes I rarely wear because I always feel like a too-tall amazon in them.
But not with Jordan. Not when he’s six-foot-three and those shoes increase my height to five-eleven. Standing next to Jordan in these heels makes me feel downright dainty.
God, I forgot how much I love a big, tall man.
The interior of his car is like a Jordan Tuttle trap. As in, it smells like him. As if he rolled all over the leather seats, the dash, the center console, and imprinted his scent permanently. I try my best to be discreet as I inhale his essence. The forest on a warm summer day. A sunny morning by the beach. That mysterious spicy drink my grandmother serves every Christmas. These are all the things I think of when I breathe in the fragrance of Jordan’s car.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the amusement in his voice makes me want to sink into my leather chair and pretend I don’t exist. I’m clearly losing my mind.
“I’m fine,” I assure him with the most normal sounding voice I can muster, but inside, I am shaken and stirred. We are sitting dangerously close to one another. He just picked out my outfit for me to wear on this date. I threw a denim jacket over it so I wouldn’t freeze to death, but otherwise I am only wearing the clothing Jordan chose for me.
Is that weird? Maybe it’s a little weird, but deep down I like it. His behavior is so very…primal.
Going on this date sans underwear is by far the most scandalous thing I’ve ever done, which proves I haven’t done very many scandalous things. It’s hard to be daring when you’re going to school, working endless nowhere jobs just to get a paycheck so ultimately you can find that job you love one day. That’s been me the last few years, before I graduated college and finally got my dream job. My mom told me I was lucky to find it, but my dad pulled me aside that Thanksgiving after I started working at Atlas and I went home for the holiday. He told me how proud he was, what a hard worker I’ve proven to be.
Just hearing those words made my eyes well up with tears. Mom has been a solid support, but Dad has always believed in me, even when I failed and made mistakes and seemed hopeless.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Jordan says, interrupting my nostalgic, vaguely melancholy thoughts.
No way am I telling him what’s going on in my brain. I need to focus on the sexy times that might happen tonight.
“Where are you taking me?” I ask.
“Have you ever been to Santana Row?”
“Once. Went to dinner at one of the restaurants there.” With a date. Not that I want to mention that particular part.
“I made a re
servation at a steakhouse there,” he says, pausing for a moment before he adds, “I live there too.”
“But I thought you had a house in the wine country.” Oh God, I sound stupid. Like a fangirl whose information was wrong. Like a stalker who’s been scoping him out on the Interwebz.
“I do, but I also have a townhouse here. It’s not far from the stadium, and it’s pretty private. Lots of guys from the team live there,” he explains.
“Oh, that’s nice.”
“Yeah.” He pauses. “Maybe I’ll take you there after dinner.”
If I immediately say yes, does that make me look too eager?
Probably.
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no either. Instead, I totally change the subject. “Did you have practice today?”
“We did, though it wasn’t as intense the day after a game. We fly out this weekend for an away game.”
“Who are you playing?”
“Tampa Bay.”
“Really?” I think of the joke my dad used to tell us when we were kids. He still tells it now, though we all groan and beg him to stop when he asks the question.
Where are your Buccaneers?