her breath as her date tried for another footsie. She sat up straighter and tucked her feet under her chair. It hadn’t looked too bad at first, not compared to some of the blind dates horror stories she’d read. James was presentable, didn’t pick his nose over the appetizer, and was even a semi-interesting conversationalist, even though his topics of choice all seemed rather similar.
But that was it, as far as the good side went.
For one, he yelled at the waiters and waitresses. Not even in an impolite way—yet—but just as a routine way of getting their attention, his shrill voice echoing from the dark wooden walls of the cozy restaurant. Lea had nearly jumped out of her too-tight heels the first time. The second time, when every single eye in the restaurant had turned on them, a couple of people out of eyeshot even standing up to check what the ruckus was all about, she’d almost slid all the way under the table in an effort to pretend she wasn’t with that man. Her foot had accidentally brushed his—which was when the footsie had started.
Things had gone downhill from there, and they weren’t even halfway through the appetizer yet. Thank God for cocktails.
Anne and Brian would be hearing about this for a long, long time, Lea thought grimly.
There was another couple just two tables away, also on their first date, judging from the snatches of conversation that drifted over. They too were making their way through the appetizer. As James called the waiter over for the fourth time, Lea occupied herself by concentrating on the other couple. The guy was probably in his early thirties, and didn’t yell at the waiters, which currently made him a dream date in her book. Not that his looks hurt any either. The woman was several years younger, her hair long and blond, her laughter loud, and she seemed to have a black belt in flirting.
The blonde obviously knew all the rules, all the in and outs of this mysterious dating culture, Lea thought enviously. She should be taking notes. The show was fascinating. Flip hair, lean forward, show cleavage, tilt head sideways and smile coyly.
Hmm. Only, it didn’t seem to be working. The guy leaned back and seemed rather bored, although his smile was polite enough. He picked up his fork and speared his shrimp, his attention wandering to James who was waving the menu in front of the waiter.
The blonde made another attempt to draw her date’s attention with the flip hair, coy smile routine. The man seemed to realize what was expected of him. He put his fork down, leaned forward and talked for a bit, seemingly answering a question.
Meanwhile, his date was scouting the restaurant, and then stood up, and headed for the rest room.
Maybe she should follow the blonde to the rest room for some girl talk. That girl looked like she knew a thing or two. She could drill her about all the details that were nagging at her. Like, was she expected to kiss her date tonight? Would she be breaking all the rules if she didn’t? Would James charge her with violations of dating ethics if she made do with a handshake and then escaped into her apartment?
She glanced at her date and decided she really, really didn’t want to kiss him if there was any way out of it.
He was bashing the poor waiter again, but at least that activity was distracting him from the footsie game. Apparently there was a typo on the menu. His monologue was drawing more and more attention from the neighboring tables, not the least from the blonde’s date, who was looking at her with certain sympathy in his gaze and a weak smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.
Oh, Lord. Not only was she on her first date since high school, she had strangers pitying her.
Blind date, she mouthed at the stranger on an impulse, shrugging helplessly.
The man raised his eyebrows, then grimaced. Me too, he mouthed back, sending her a sympathetic grin and a rueful shake of his head.
That one, she might not mind kissing at the end of the evening, she conceded. Gorgeous eyes—dark blue, from what she could tell from here—and the smile was even better. The blonde had nothing to complain about. Some girls had all the luck.
The third waiter incident was over at last. Lea tried to catch the waiter’s eye for an apologetic look, but the harassed young man was hurrying away from the table, and she didn’t blame him. Worse, James’s toes were digging into her foot again. She pulled her legs under the chair once more, but he seemed to consider that a coy game of playing hard to get, and his foot was now on her calf.
What the hell was he thinking?
Once again she cursed her inexperience at this thing. Was this a normal part of whatever activities were involved in a first date in today’s world, or would she be justified in being insulted enough to throw down her napkin and stalk out of the restaurant?
She didn’t want to make a scene. She hated making scenes but that man wasn’t taking a hint, was he?
She’d try an unsubtle one.
“I’m sorry, but your foot keeps bumping into me,” she said with a polite laugh, once again moving her legs. “Not a lot of room under these tables, is there?”
Doggone it, it worked. James’s face froze in astonished shock, then his feet were mercifully withdrawn.
So was conversation. So were smiles.
Which only left arguments with the waiter, didn’t it?
Lea groaned under her breath after making several attempts to start a conversation, all met with an icy yes, no, or noncommittal grunts if she asked open-ended questions.
What a guy.
She gave up for the time being, and instead went for another glass of wine. She picked at the smoked salmon, but there was no way anything could have a taste in these circumstances. This was dreadful. If she clicked her heels three times, would she be transported out of here? Anywhere, anytime, would be better than right here, right now. She was being ignored by her date, who’d obviously been insulted by her refusal to be toe-groped under the table. For all she knew, she was being terribly unfair. Maybe there was even something she should be doing in return. Like scratching behind his ears with her fork.
She might as well have stepped onto another planet.
Their next-table neighbors weren’t doing much better, although she could see under their table and at least the blue-eyed guy didn’t seem to belong to the Footsie Cult. He seemed, however, to have lost his appetite and was leaning back in his seat, looking with a bit of a terror at the blonde, who had finished her appetizer and was now blowing green bubble gum bubbles in between her energetic chatting. Her voice was loud, and her favorite subject matter seemed to be celebrity gossip. Then she stuck her gum on her plate and jumped to her feet, heading for the rest room for the second time in twenty minutes.
Mr. Blue Eyes slumped in relief and took a deep breath, rubbing his face with both hands. He then picked up his fork and started pushing his food around his plate. He met Lea’s gaze again, and they sighed silently in unison.
James started hollering for the waiter again, and Lea stood up so quickly that the heavy wooden chair almost toppled. “I’ll just…” she waved a hand in the direction of the rest room. “I’ll be right back…” she murmured. She’d probably be able to hear the one-sided argument in there. Hopefully she could just stay locked in there until everything was silent again.
“Darling…I’m sorry. So sorry.”
Lea almost flew up the wall in shock. The blue-eyed stranger was all of a sudden at her side, his hand on her shoulder, intense regret in his voice, She nearly panicked. Two psychos in one night, what were the odds?
Then she noticed him winking at her.
“Can you forgive me?” he continued, the look in his eyes beseeching, and behind the playacting, a wicked glint of humor. And they were blue. Very blue, she noticed vaguely, before she was distracted by a warm kiss pressed to the back of her hand. “I’ve missed you so much, darling,” he said, his voice low and intimate, but just loud enough to make sure James would hear. “I’ve been going out of my mind. When I saw you again, I knew we’d been so wrong