awkward conversation for the actual date. Okay?”
Her sister, no competition for Meryl Streep’s acting awards, clutched her chest with both hands and feigned an exaggerated faint, sprawling across the sofa cushions and sporting a rapturous smile. Monica didn’t need a mirror to know she wore a matching one. She wished she’d beat Melody to the full-body flop.
Settling for a semi-swoon against the arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes and envisioned him propped up against the tree trunk. “Okay.”
“Do you like spicy food? Like Mexican-type stuff?”
Picturing the swanky restaurant specializing in Korean-Mexican fusion she’d read about last week, she sighed. This date was definitely meant to be. “Is there anyone who doesn’t?”
“Do you want me to pick you up, or would you be more comfortable meeting me someplace?”
The thoughtfulness of the question jolted her from her fantasies about Dakgalbi tacos. No pick up meant no drop off, and maybe less opportunity for post-drop off activities. “Uh, well, it doesn’t really matter.”
“I didn’t know what your babysitting situation would be,” he explained.
“Oh, well, Emma will be at my sister’s.” She bit off a yelp of pain when said sister’s heel connected with her ribs. “I can meet you.”
“Great. I know I’m used to eating earlier these days, and I’m sure you are, too. How about we meet outside the Starbucks at Clark and Belmont at about six?”
Monica stifled a snort. Six? She was usually at work at six. And she couldn’t remember exactly where the fusion place was, but she was thinking more Near North or West Town. Of course, where they ate hardly mattered. What mattered was she had a date with the hottest Saturdaddy ever to hit the Armitage Park playground. “Sounds perfect.”
“I’ll see you then.”
The smile in his voice rang through loud and clear, spawning one of her own. “See you.”
The moment she ended the call, Melody pounced. Her sister snatched the phone from her hand. “Oh my God, he sounded so hot. I need to see his picture again.” She scrambled up onto her knees and sat on her heels, a dreamy sigh escaping her as the squishy couch cushion forced her to topple sideways. “I didn’t know guys like this roamed around out there.”
“Like unicorns?”
“The kind of unicorns that only live on Calvin Klein’s estate.”
“Stop ogling my date.” Monica plucked the phone from her sister’s grasp. “You’re a married lady.”
“Married, not dead. You’re right about his skin. Was it really pretty up close and personal?”
“Like the man should be in a Dove commercial.”
“Irish,” Melody said with a sigh. “Has to be, with a name like Colm Cleary.”
“A green-eyed Irishman. Imagine,” Monica said with a smug smirk.
“He sure fills the Henley out well.” Mel held the phone close to her face, a pensive frown bisecting her brow. “Maybe I should get Jer a couple.”
Feeling generous, Monica refrained from pointing out that her beloved brother-in-law was a good four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter than Colm. Not that she was trying to sell him…well, short. Jeremy was a handsome man in his own lean and studious way. In truth, he was more the type Monica usually went for, but it wasn’t every day a woman stumbled across a beast of a hottie while on a play date with her niece.
“I posted him to my friend Sarah’s blog.”
“What? Already?” Melody scowled at the phone. “You haven’t even figured out what to wear.” She gasped. “What are you going to wear?”
Monica opened her mouth to answer, but her sister stopped her with the hand.
“No. Nothing black, gray, or whatever boring shade of neutral Armani has declared the new white. You need color. Real color. Vibrant color.”
Monica scowled, annoyed by her sister’s assessment of her wardrobe options. “I don’t wear vibrant color. Bright flashy things spook the traders.”
“What happened to the wrap blouse I bought you for Christmas?”
Avoiding her sister’s gaze, she pretended to give the question due diligence. “It’s in my closet.” Not a lie. The sapphire-blue length of rayon blend was somewhere in the bag of castoffs at the rear of her closet. The one she’d planned to donate to a local women’s shelter. She bit the inside of her cheek as she considered the garment in question. The blouse was a pretty color, even if a bit too bright. And with the right bra, the wrap style might give the illusion of cleavage. Warming to the idea, she turned to Melody. “With a pair of black pipe-stem pants?”
Mel blinked as if she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Pants? I thought you wanted to get laid?”
“Oops. Too soon,” they heard Jeremy say a tad too loud.
Their heads swiveled in the direction of the kitchen in time to see the door swing shut again.
“And the awkwardness begins,” Monica said with a giggle.
“You need to wear a skirt. A short one,” Melody pronounced.
“I don’t own any short skirts.”
Her sister rolled her eyes. “Of course you don’t, Business Barbie.” Shaking her head pityingly, she unfolded herself from the couch, snagging Monica’s hand as she rose. “Come on. I’m sure I have something from the pre-pregnancy collection that’ll work.”
Monica stutter-stepped to match her sister’s pace as she allowed herself to be dragged toward the apartment’s spare bedroom. “Pre-pregnancy? But that was seven years ago.”
Bypassing a weaving loom she hadn’t so much as dusted in months, Mel made a beeline for the closet. With a flourish, she threw open the door to reveal an Ali Baba’s cave of clothing. “You’re lucky skimpy never goes out of style.”
* * * *
He had to stop looking down her blouse. Well, not really down her blouse, at her blouse. The spot where the two sides crisscrossed. Right there. And if he didn’t stop gawking, she was going to notice. And here he’d been so proud of himself for walking the block and a half to La Casita without falling at her feet. If he had, he probably would have taken the opportunity to peek up her skirt.
God, he was a dog. Had he always been this desperate? Maybe not always, he reasoned. But definitely lately. He was going to have to get a handle on himself.
When he’d turned the corner and saw her standing by the coffee shop doorway, he’d almost chocked on his own tongue. Her legs were long. Supermodel fantasy long. And she was wearing a very short skirt. For one crazy second, all he could think about was her skirt. The hemline would never have escaped the nuns at his grammar school. He sent up a quick prayer of heartfelt thanksgiving for that singularly inadequate piece of fabric. For a man who’d spent the last few years jacking off to the lingerie catalogs that kept coming to his house long after his wife had died, those legs and a short skirt were a dream come true.
He’d caught a flash of disappointment in her eyes when they stepped into the restaurant’s garishly festive vestibule, but she recovered with a smile tinged with a hint of sheepishness. As if she knew she’d been caught out being a little snobby. She had the good grace to be sorry, too. The tiny restaurant was packed, but he knew the owners, so they’d been seated right away. And while the table spared him the sight of those mile-long legs, the vee neck put the shallow valley of her cleavage right at eye level.
Monica glanced up from the menu. “I don’t recognize some of the dishes listed here. What kind of fusion is this?”
“Fusion?” He looked at the laminated parchment as if he might