Destiny and the Devil, page 2
“Well, I understand why your mother might be worried. If you had chocolate milk on your last date, I assume you would have been around five years old. That could have been decades ago.”
“It’s possible,” I say with a shrug, preferring this story to my actual dating disasters. “So, what do grown-ups do, since you’re such a professional at dating?”
“I don’t date much either, to be honest,” he admits. “But I’ve never been asked out for chocolate milk. That’s different.”
“Should we have coffee, then?” I suggest.
“We can do anything we want,” he answers, with a grin. “Actually, I have an idea. Come with me!”
He extends his hand, offering to take mine, and I hesitate. I can’t help wondering what kind of trouble I’m getting myself into. But the look on his face is so cheerful and childlike that I can’t help trusting him a little. Heck, I really wouldn’t mind having some chocolate milk with this man.
I take one hand off my Cheetos, and place it in his, and he leads me through the hospital halls, and into an area that I’ve never been.
“Where are we going?” I ask with surprise. “Am I allowed to be back here?”
“I have a doctor friend who has an office that he keeps stocked up with a bunch of refreshments and snacks. He’s always fighting with his wife, and being forced to spend nights here in his office, so he added a refrigerator and microwave, plus some other basic comforts.”
“Are you sure he isn’t here right now?” I ask him.
“Quite sure. He’s currently on good terms with his wife—I aways know when he’s not, because he’ll start sending me a bunch of existential, gloomy texts and memes filled with dark humor. Then he’ll invite me over for a drink, and he won’t even finish one before he starts crying.”
I giggle at this softly. “Doesn’t sound like a very healthy relationship.”
“Healthy relationships take a lot of work and communication,” the man says. “They are definitely going through a rough spot, but I know they both love each other. I hope they work it out.”
“You seem like a good friend,” I say as I follow him briskly.
“Not that good if I’m about to break into my buddy’s office and help myself to his stuff,” he says with a grin. “But I figure he owes me this, after all the hours of free therapy I’ve provided.”
When he reaches the door, he punches a code into the keypad just above the handle, and then opens the door. He guides me into the room.
I like the sensation of doing something a bit naughty, sneaking into someone’s office when they aren’t there. I never do this sort of thing.
“What on earth...” I say, looking around. “There’s a disco ball. And table hockey. Is that a pinball machine? This is more than a few basic comforts.”
“It’s his secret man cave,” the stranger says as he closes the door behind us. “Not bad for a hospital date, right? Oh, check this out. He’s also got booze—lots of booze.”
“I probably shouldn’t drink much,” I tell him as I study the table where crystal canisters sit, filled with amber liquid. “I will have to drive my mom home to Silver Mountain after this.”
“Oh, you’re from Silver Mountain?” the man comments as he walks over to the mini kitchen. “Me too. Aha! Good news. There’s chocolate milk in the fridge, if you wouldn’t prefer a more adult beverage.”
“Maybe a tiny bit adult wouldn’t hurt,” I tell him as I gaze at all the spirits. “But I do love chocolate milk.”
“Challenge accepted,” he says, cracking his knuckles. “One chocolate milk martini coming right up.”
I watch as the handsome man gathers his ingredients from the fridge, and brings them to the bar. He selects a few bottles, and pulls out a cocktail shaker. “Alexa,” he calls out. “Play date night music.”
I can’t help laughing as romantic music begins to play in the room, and the man begins to pour chocolate milk into the cocktail shaker. He follows with a splash of Kahlua and vanilla vodka, attempting to twirl the bottles and hum along with the music before each pour. He then discovers that there is also Bailey’s Irish Cream and a chocolate liqueur in his friend’s collection. With a stylish flourish, he adds even more ingredients to his concoction.
What is this adorable alchemy?
He nearly drops a bottle, but catches it, and pretends it was part of the show. I try to suppress a giggle as he shakes the silver mixer over both of his shoulders, with great gusto. Finally, he retrieves a martini glass, and uses a bottle of hot fudge to create a chocolate rim around the top. He pours the drink into the glass before handing it to me.
“Your drink, madam. Adult chocolate milk, as requested.”
Taking the glass from him, I shake my head with amazement. “That was very smooth. Have you done this before?”
“Yes, I pick up chicks at that vending machine all the time. These are my moves—Cheetos and chocolate milk are the best way to get laid around here. No, of course not,” he says with a laugh. “And try the drink before you start thinking I’m an expert.”
I place the glass to my lips and take a sip—damn. It’s heavenly. It’s creamy and rich and chocolatey, and far better than anything I ever expected to taste on a random fake hospital date. “Wow,” I say softly, staring at him with surprise. It’s the best chocolate milk I’ve ever tasted in my life, but I feel like it wouldn’t be classy to say that out loud.
I can tell that he’s satisfied with my response anyway, as he grins smugly and begins to put all the bottles away. I can’t help but stare at his body when he moves—his broad, muscled shoulders rippling beneath his shirt. Maybe it’s just the calming sound of the R & B music that has begun playing in the room that makes his every motion seem so suave. There’s a vibe around this man that feels a bit like magic.
I’m sure it’s just the music creating a weirdly relaxing and romantic atmosphere. And I am sure he meant it all as a joke a first, but it’s definitely working. I take another sip of the delicious beverage he created as I watch him pour himself a drink.
“What are you having?” I ask.
“Just a bit of cognac,” he tells me, turning the bottle so I can see the label: Hennessy XO.
I can’t stop staring at his beautiful hands. They look so strong and capable, yet elegant. Finely muscled arms with teal veins running up to his wrists where he has rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt—wait, is that a Rolex?
I mean, it could be a knockoff. Or it could be a cheap, second-hand Rolex. But it doesn’t look very cheap. It probably costs more than my car.
I suddenly realize that I don’t know anything about this man. I don’t even know his name. Does he work here at the hospital? How else would he know a doctor well enough to just walk into his office and drink his liquor? A twinge of fear and insecurity begins in my gut.
“Why does a doctor have so much booze in his office? He doesn’t practice medicine drunk, does he?” I ask.
“I certainly hope not. No, I think it’s just for the evenings, when he’s upset about his wife. But I’m sure we’d be doing him a favor if we drank it all,” my date answers.
This has all been a bit fairytale-like. What are the chances that a man like this is even single? What if this isn’t his friend’s office, and it’s actually his office? What if he’s the one who has problems with his wife?
This abruptly breaks the spell of relaxing romance that had washed over me. Even if he is being honest, even if he is single—why would he ever be interested in me? He surely wouldn’t be if he knew what a failure I am.
Looking down at the Cheetos I am still holding, which I purchased with my literal last dollar, all my stress comes rushing back to me. The images of my mother receiving chemo, the pressure of going over the hospital bills with my elderly father, giving everything I can to keep us from going under and losing the family inn. Digging in the back of the couch to try find a few extra coins so that I can afford a snack at the gas station. But then needing to sacrifice the snack so I can afford gas.
Meanwhile, that guy is wearing a Rolex and drinking liquor that costs who-knows-how-much. We are from entirely different worlds. This date was doomed to failure before it begun. And that’s why I don’t date. If he knew what a disaster my life was, he would run.
“Hey,” he says, coming over with his drink. “Hey, hey—what’s wrong?”
“I just...” I don’t really know what to say. I can’t force the words out without getting emotional.
“Come sit down and eat your Cheetos,” he says, gently placing a hand on my back and guiding me over to the soft couch. “I’m sure you’re going through a lot right now. Do you want to talk about it? Get it off your chest.”
Chapter 4
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “We’re on a date. And I’m terrible at dating, but I think I’m not supposed to complain about all of my problems… and we’re supposed to have fun. And you made such a delicious drink for me—this is fun. I’m having fun.”
“If you have to say that you’re having fun so many times, then you’re clearly not having enough fun,” he says lightly. “But that’s okay—we don’t have to pretend. We can talk about our real feelings and get to know each other, without all the first date fakeness.”
“I don’t think I want to,” I tell him softly. “If I do that, I’m just going to end up crying and you’ll get sick of me and all my emotions like a tornado all over the place... you’ll run right out of here in five minutes! Yes, let’s just keep it fun and light.”
“Now why would you think that?” he asks gently. “Life isn’t all about fun and games. We can have a real conversation without me needing to head for the hills and hide in the bushes.”
“That is not my experience with men,” I tell him with a sad smile.
“Then maybe you don’t have any experiences with real men,” he says, leaning closer, with a grin. “Maybe you’ve only dated weak little boys.”
Oh. My. Gosh.
The confident way he says that makes my tummy tingle. I have to shove my face back into my chocolate martini and take a large sip to distract myself from looking at his lips. Who is this man?
“But I understand if those toddlers on the playground weren’t ready to handle any real emotions. You were just babies having chocolate milk, after all. Now that we’re having grown-up beverages, we can surely have some grown-up conversations, right?”
“I don’t even know your name,” I say with an awkward smile.
“My name is—no,” he says, shaking his head. “If I tell you my name, you’ll just Google me and find out everything there is to know about me in thirty seconds. That defeats the purpose of going on a date, don’t you think? It removes all need for us to have an actual conversation.”
“Do you want to remain anonymous because you’re ridiculously rich?” I ask him.
“What makes you think that?” he asks with surprise.
“Your watch,” I point out.
“Oh,” he says, glancing at it. “Yes, well, that was a gift from my father.”
“Or maybe,” I suggest. “You don’t want me to know your name because you’re married, and if I discover that I’ll run out of here and throw my drink in your face?”
“Definitely not married,” he says. Then he takes a long drink of his cognac. “Well, I was. Many years ago. It’s a long story.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask.
“Absolutely not. It’s probably a bit too heavy for first-date conversation,” he admits. “I would rather not tell you my name at this moment, but you’ll find out quite soon. Can you just trust me if I promise you that I’m not a sleazeball?”
“Okay,” I respond, against my better judgment. “I trust you.”
“Thank you,” he says gently. “I’m not great at dating either. I don’t really want to tell you about my job, or my past relationships, or my family—I want you to know me. But I don’t even know how to tell you about myself without everything else.”
“See?! This is hard,” I tell him. “What do we talk about? What do we do?”
“I don’t know. But I can tell you what I’d like to do,” he says, staring at my lips.
“What’s that?” I ask, feeling the fire grow in my tummy again.
“You’ve got a bit of chocolate sauce—right here,” he says, gesturing up at his own lips. “May I?”
Feeling a bit strangely bold, I lift my drink to my lips and smear more of the chocolate all over them. “Where?” I ask innocently. “Here?”
He laughs softly, causing the cutest crinkle to form around his blue eyes. He reaches out to place a thumb on my cheek, and I can see that he wants to kiss me. Ugh, I am dying to know what his name is. The mystery of it drives me a bit wild, to be honest. I’m sure it’s something masculine and strong—maybe a bit wintery, as with most people who are native to Silver Mountain.
“My name is June,” I tell him softly.
“June,” he repeats. “Like the Juniper berry.”
As he strokes his thumb delicately across my cheek, I can’t really take the suspense. So, I lean forward and close the distance between us, to press my chocolate-covered lips against his mouth.
He seems startled for a moment, but then his lips soften against mine, and he kisses back—his tongue slipping out to taste the chocolate on me.
Oh my god. This chocolate thing may have been a bad idea, because my tongue naturally comes out to meet and play with his, and this kiss deepens. His lips devour mine, sending shivers to every part of my body, and fanning that ember into a baby flame, a warm, spreading heat in the center of me.
He tastes amazing—and it’s not just the chocolate and cognac mingling on our tongues. He tastes fresh and clean like he’s never smoked a cigarette in his life, and he flosses regularly, and he chews spearmint gum. He’s the cleanest, healthiest, tastiest man I’ve ever tasted, and I find myself wanting more, and more.
My body moves closer to his, seeking his touch, and his hand slides around my waist.
The kiss gets so deep, so fast, that I don’t even notice when he puts his drink aside, and takes my drink out of my hand, before he puts both hands around my waist and easily lifts me over to sit on his lap. I find myself straddling him, without knowing how I got there, as we kiss each other hungrily. I sigh into his lips.
I don’t even realize that my own arms have wrapped around his neck, and our bodies have melted together. I can feel the hardness of him pressed against me through both of our clothing—and my silly, silky panties—which I am now very thankful to have worn.
I slowly rock my hips against him, and he groans against my mouth.
“Slow down,” he says gently, letting his hands drift up and down my back. “We have time.”
“Chemo finishes in about an hour, and I will have to go,” I tell him. “So not that much time.”
“Not that much time today,” he corrects.
“Will there be more days?” I ask, with surprise.
“If you want them,” he says, as his hands reach up to undo my buttons. “This is a lovely sweater, by the way. It’s so soft and cozy.”
“Thank you! I knitted it myself.” Take that, Mrs. Merriweather. This gorgeous man loves my sweater, so it can’t be that bad.
He pulls it off me, and tosses it onto the couch, creating a pillow that he then gently guides me down onto. He follows, never breaking the contact of our lips for very long, kissing me and sliding his hands up under my skirt to squeeze my ass as he grinds his arousal against me.
I wrap one leg around him to drag him closer. I love the feeling of his hardness through our clothes—it makes me wish we were both wearing a lot less clothing. I realize that this is crazy, and getting kind of intense, and I barely know this man... but I want this so badly. I want to forget about everything bad in my life for a few minutes, and just feel good.
And he’s helping me do that way better than Cheetos ever could.
But just then, my stomach happens to growl, and he pauses our hot and heavy make-out session. He looks at me with surprise. “Oh, you never ate. You must be starving.”
He abruptly climbs off me and hands me my junk food and my chocolate martini.
“No, no, I’m fine,” I assure him. “There’s probably tons of sugar in this drink, so it’s kind of like a meal all by itself.” I take the drink from him, and I pour the rest of it down my throat to demonstrate. “See? I’m good.”
“There’s no nutrition in that,” he informs me skeptically. “I feel awful—you asked me on a date, and I should have taken you down to the cafeteria for a proper meal.”
“I’m not hungry anymore,” I tell him, putting down my empty glass. “I promise. Please don’t even worry about that. This is the nicest date I’ve been on in years. I’m only hungry for you, now. Seriously.”
To encourage him, I reach down and grasp the hemline of my dress, and drag it up over my head, exposing my custom-made bra, which is also covered in glitters, to match my panties. I remove my dress, and written across my chest are some very ridiculous words: “MILK JUGS.” One word on each boob, complete with a cartoon rendition of a bottle of milk. He immediately begins to laugh when he sees the silly bra, and while I am very embarrassed, and did not expect anyone to ever see me wearing this, I am glad that it helps to break the ice. And I’m very proud of my unusual lingerie designs, anyway. This is just my first time testing them out on a male member of the human species.
(My male cat never seemed very impressed.)
The music is still playing, so I stand up, with my cheeks a bit flushed. I begin to do a dumb, sexy little dance for him. I even reach up, and grasp my hair, which is tightly wound up in the braided buns, and I undo the style, letting my reddish-brown locks fall down around my waist. I sway my hips from side to side, in what I hope is a seductive manner, and I watch as the arousal grows in his eyes. His hands reach for me.
But then a weird beeping noise causes us both to look toward the door.
Someone is trying to enter the room.
“Over here. Quickly,” he says, grabbing my hand and swiftly leading me to the closet.
