“Is this what they call the Getting to Know You phase?”
We laugh. Laughing is easier than being awkward. So much easier than being raw. Being here with him, in unfamiliar territory, feels remarkably safe. At no point in any of my time I’ve ever spent with Andrew, from the moment we met in that boardroom at Anterdec for the pitch nearly two years ago (when Hot Guy met Toilet Girl) to these seconds ticking on and onward have I ever felt unsafe.
Unmoored? Yes. Confused? Yes. Uncertain? Sure.
But never unsafe.
He is hard to read and right now, his eyes are on me, as if he’s trying to understand me the same way I’m pondering him.
“Where did you go to college?” he asks suddenly.
“UMASS, of course. You?”
He cocks one eyebrow. “Harvard.”
“Of course.”
“Where were you born?”
“Mendon. But we live in Newton now. You?”
“Weston.”
I can’t help but laugh. “My guess would have been Wayland, Wellesley or Weston.” The expensive western suburbs of Boston.
“Favorite ice cream?”
“Do I have to pick one? That’s like asking my favorite Yes song.”
Eyes on me, his face changes, evaluating me like he can’t quite believe what I just said. His hands reach up to the top button of his shirt, the one right below his open throat. He unbuttons it slowly, then reaches down for the next one.
This is quite a segue. I am getting my second strip tease in the same day, huh? No complaints.
No complaints at all.
Like Superman, he pries open the two sides of his business shirt to reveal—
A Yes concert t-shirt.
“No way!” I crow. “You went last year? At the pavilion?” Right across the bay from Andrew’s apartment there is a large outdoor concert center where I saw the band perform just last summer.
“Yes.”
We laugh, the sound like threads being woven to make a pattern.
“Too bad about Chris Squire.” I don’t even have to explain that I’m mourning the loss of the longtime band’s bass player recently, for Andrew’s face goes sorrowful instantly. He gives me a pensive look, then stands, reaching into his back pocket.
He pulls out his phone, taps a few times on the glass, then inserts the device into a docking stage.
Very familiar music floats through the air.
This is really unreal.
“I don’t know anyone under forty who likes Yes,” I say.
“And yet here we are. Terry got me into it,” he explains. “You?”
“A high school boyfriend with a dad who worked the sound stage for them as a roadie in their earlier years.”
“You said you’d never had a boyfriend.”
“Not a serious one. High school doesn’t count.”
He’s so appealing right now, sitting there with an openness as he listens to me. Andrew’s curiosity feels less like being grilled and more like being known. Something beeps in the distance, and he crosses the room quickly.
The scent of spices tells me it’s time for dinner.
“It’s much better in the original vinyl, though,” I call out as he walks into the kitchen.
“You’re a musical Luddite?” he jokes.
“I just like the way it sounds,” I explain, the conversation cut short by dinner’s readiness.
He’s surprisingly fussy, making sure the plates and table are set up correctly, but I understand why when we sit down. He opens a new bottle of wine and by the time we both descend into our seats, nestled in place, everything we could want is within arm’s reach.
Including each other.
The food is perfect, a beef dish with flavors that tantalize, and I should appreciate the delicious tastes I’m getting but I can’t. Andrew eats with a half-hearted precision that makes me wonder if he feels the same way. As I finish what I know is my final bite of this wonderful meal I sip my water slowly, then replace it with wine, swishing the alcohol in my mouth, savoring the mouth feel.
His tongue would taste even better against my own.
Andrew’s face is tipped down, but his eyes flash up at me, framed by those long lashes. “What are you thinking about?” he asks.
I nearly drop my wine glass. My laugh covers up my nervousness. Or so I hope. “Isn’t that my line? Aren’t women the ones who always ask that?”
“I’m fighting stereotypes.”
“I see that. You aren’t being texted three hundred times an hour like most CEOs.”
“I turned off my phone.”
“Oh.”
He turned off his phone.
In the range of behaviors C-level executives can exhibit on a date, that’s big. Shannon complains incessantly that Declan is constantly being interrupted by his phone. The tech tether that insta-communication creates is more a choke collar than a safety line these days.
He turned off his phone for me.
Remembering to breathe is about all I can manage right now, especially when he brings his wine glass to his lips and takes a long, slow drink, his mouth gripping the glass edge like a kiss. His tongue strokes the bottom of the goblet and I work the muscles at the back of my throat so I don’t moan.
“No interruptions.” His voice is low and deep, punctuated by the heavy breath of someone who is—
Actively remembering to breathe.
“You turned off your phone for me,” I say with a long inhale that hitches in my bones. “That’s like donating a kidney for a CEO.”
One side of that compelling mouth curls up in a smile. “I wouldn’t quite go that far.”