It’s been so long since I’ve been on a proper date I don’t know if I should wear lipstick. I’m for sure going to be kissed; I just don’t know if he’s going to kiss me before or after dinner. I end up applying some sheer, summery lip gloss and borrowing Stella’s gold designer handbag. And just for good measure, I do a sequence of yoga poses to get my nervousness under control and my blood pressure balanced.
When I arrive at the party, Fabian (whose name I still suspect is fake as hell) is leaning with one elbow against the bar but looking impossibly hotter than he did earlier this afternoon.
The party is already in full swing. There are dozens of perfect 10s milling around in barely-there dresses, angling for his attention, but his eyes are on me.
His eyes drift all the way down to my toes and back up again to my face, and I feel my entire body flush once again. His expression about does me in; nobody has ever looked at me with that much heat before, and in such a way that doesn’t feel creepy.
How does he do that?
“Hi!” I say, still trying to quell the nervousness so it doesn’t show in my voice.
He exhales something in French and I nearly lose all feeling in my knees. “Mon pétale.”
Fabian takes my hand in his and kisses my knuckles, then kisses each of my cheeks. When he places his hand on the small of my back and says, “Let’s get you a drink,” I’m trembling because I feel like I’m on a date with the ghost of Cary Grant and everyone in the room can see we don’t belong together.
I’m grateful for the liquid courage; this resort hotel's poolside party is packed with people who look like they could be top-tier Instagram influencers. My eyeballs are being blessed by some seriously sexy dance moves that are well out of my area of expertise. I'm not a terrible dancer but I'm pretty sure I'd look like Napoleon Dynamite next to these people, so I'm praying Fabian doesn't ask me to dance.
The man can pick up on cues, I'll say that for him. Sensing my unease, he asks if I'd rather take our drinks out to the hotel's private beach. We chat as we stroll across the boardwalk that spans the protected dunes and seagrass, and Fabian holds my drink while I slip off my shoes when we reach the other side. The party has spilled out onto the beach, where Fabian locates a couple of semi-isolated lounge chairs, a fair walk down the beach, away from most of the revelers.
"We're lucky to find these, it looks like all the other chairs have been claimed," I remark, scanning the beach. Fabian holds my hand to help me sit down gracefully — I can never sit down gracefully in a lounge chair — and then adjusts the back of it for me so it's upright but comfortable.
With an unusual shyness I've not seen from him yet, he says, "They're mine. I had a feeling about the crowds, so I went out and procured some chairs today, in hopes that you would show up." He looks away from me and stares out at the water.
I don't know whether to feel honored or overwhelmed by the idea that he went out and bought chairs just for tonight. “That's too nice," I say, admiring his profile, watching the ocean breeze play with his hair. I find myself wanting to reach out and touch the stray tendrils and tuck them behind his ears so they don't obscure his face. "Can I pay you back for my half, at least? You went to a lot of trouble."
I know that he knows I'm serious, so when his response to my offer is to laugh, I feel confused at first.
The way he laughs is so infectious, I start to laugh myself as he leans toward me. "What's so fun—"
His lips cut off my words in a soft, unexpected kiss. The brief caress of his mouth on mine and his hand cupping my face electrifies my entire body.
"Do not ever mention paying me back for anything, sweet lady," he says, leaning back in his chair.
I'm not sure how to proceed from here, I'm so shaken after one simple, sweet kiss. The way he's looking at me, all I can think about now is jumping his bones. It's not the same wolfish gaze from earlier today. This expression is the way someone looks when they have a thousand things they want to say, but can't find the right way to say them. My heart thuds. I will the sun to set faster so I don't have to see him looking at me like that; yet I also will it to set slower because, my god, he's beautiful, and no one has ever looked at me in this way. My mind quickly f
lails around for something — anything — to talk about.
"So," I finally say, "It’s nice out here, away from the crowds of people wondering why such a dashing fellow is hanging around with a humdrum person like me.”
Fabian stops as he reaches for his drink. “No, you misread them. Trust me, it is you who is out of my league.”
I’m glad he can’t see my full expression in the dimming light; I’m embarrassed by his flattery.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” I say.
He sees me self consciously fiddling with my dress and mercifully changes the subject. “Let’s play a game,” he says. “I’m going to ask you five things about yourself and you have to answer as quickly as you can.”
I love learning trivia about people so of course I agree.
“What’s your favorite book?”
I’m thrown because nobody has ever asked me this before. “Of all books? Or do you mean childhood book, or young adult...”
“Gut reaction, mon amie. Just the first thing that pops into your head.”
“Like Water for Chocolate,” I say.
He responds with a huge smile. “Very nice. Favorite color?”