Flirts! 5 Romantic Short Stories (The Flirts! Collection) Page 4

  She was having dinner with her mother, so she didn’t see Brady pick me up. He looked kill-me-now hot in a pale blue shirt and dark jeans. Now, if I lived life like Miranda, I would’ve said screw the date, and come on inside and…

  “Hi,” I said, pushing those nasty thoughts out of my mind. I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew the evening wouldn’t be ending that way.

  Brady was quiet for most of the ride to the restaurant. I joked about his dislike of cats and the collection of bras at the bar being a good resale opportunity on ebay, but it got little more than a chuckle from him.

  Once we got to the restaurant and each had a drink, he loosened up a bit. “So, am I allowed to date your brother when he’s twenty-five?” I teased.

  He looked out the window. “No, I just don’t want you to, that’s all.”

  “You didn’t have to take me out. You could have said I was leaving for an African photo safari or something.”

  “I wanted to take you out. Really.”

  I smoothed the napkin on my lap and looked at him. “You wanted to go out with me on a date.” I swallowed hard. “As more than I friend?”

  Before he could answer, a tall, blond woman walked up to our table, and my first instinct had me thinking it was Miranda.

  “Brady? How are you?” She set her hands on the table and leaned over, like she was going to pour her cleavage on his plate.

  Brady sat up straight. “Laura? I thought you were in Florida. Did you move back?”

  “No, I’m visiting my folks. Who’s this?” She nodded in my direction.

  “This is Jane. Jane, this is Laura.”

  “His ex-girlfriend,” she filled in.

  I gulped and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.” But it wasn’t. Not at all. She was tall, and thin, and gorgeous, and reminded me of how I wasn’t any of those things. No, Brady wasn’t truly interested in taking someone like me out. This was a sympathy date, and that was it. I was like the girl back at the bar who’d scored a free drink. Tall, blond goddess—that was his type.

  “Hope you’re doing well,” she said. “Nice meeting you, Jane.”

  He blew out a breath as she walked away. “That was fun,” he said.

  “When did you two break up?”

  “Six months ago. It was kind of ugly. She moved down to Florida and was mad I didn’t follow her.”

  “Do you still love her?” I asked, trying to sound uninterested.

  He snorted. “No. I’m damn glad I didn’t follow her there. We weren’t right for a number of reasons.”

  I looked down at the menu, pretending to be enthralled with the description for the chicken florentine. “She looks a lot like my friend Miranda.”

  He cocked his head. “I guess she does a bit.”

  I just nodded and was so grateful I had taught myself how to keep from crying by pinching that space between my thumb and forefinger. My thumb cleavage. It would probably be bruised the next day.

  We finished dinner with forced conversation and a few lame attempts at jokes. Afterward, I suggested skipping the movie. “I’m not feeling great,” I said.

  “Legionnaire’s disease, I suspect.”

  “Probably. Don’t even dream of kissing me, I’m probably contagious.”

  “Fair warning.”

  We drove home and I had to pinch my thumb again. This date was such a mistake. He wasn’t interested in me, of course not. He just felt bad for me. And how could we keep being friends with this between us now, like a piece of spinach in your teeth that would never go away?

  I hopped out of the car before any uncomfortable conversation could arise.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow to make sure you’re feeling better.”

  “Thanks,” I said, dashing off to my apartment for a long, hot, bubble bath and an even longer cry.

  After a restless night, I knew I had to talk to Miranda. She’d be mad I didn’t tell her about this all along, but she would tell me how to save my friendship with Brady if there were any way to do that.

  I heard someone out in the hall and popped up to look through the peephole. Brady was leaving Miranda’s apartment. I sucked in a breath and flattened my back against the wall. My heart was in my stomach. Miranda had hooked up with him, after all. She didn’t know how I felt about him, or she never would have done it. But of course, I’d been too stupid to tell her about my silly little crush.

  I knocked my head against the wall a few times, then jumped back in bed, unwilling to answer the door for him in case he stopped by my place.

  But he never came.

  Miranda, however, did. And I wouldn’t let her in. Was he after her now? A nice substitute for his ex-girlfriend? Did seeing Laura remind him there was a perfect body-double nearby?

  I waited for her to stop knocking, quickly got dressed, and left the apartment. I couldn’t bear to hear her gushing over the guy I was crazy about. I left a note on my door telling her I was visiting my parents and would be home quite late.

  But I didn’t feel like crying on Mom’s shoulder over this. She’d give me some sickly sweet pep talk about how special I am and how anyone would be lucky to have me blah, blah, barf. Instead, I went to the zoo. I’d probably do too much damage at the mall.

  But that didn’t cheer me up. It was a miserably hot day, and even the kangaroos just stood there. Not a hop in the bunch. Plus, there was no one to share a joke with.

  It took everything in me not to answer the phone when Brady called. And he called three times. Miranda did, too. I was hoping in a few days the idea of the two of them together would be easier to swallow.

  But chances were Miranda wouldn’t last with him a few days. She ate up her men like they were microwave meals; Brady was a single-serving pizza. And no way would he be settling for me as a consolation prize. Hopefully we could strike up a friendship again in a while, but it would never be like it had been.

  And I wasn’t even going to insist he pay up on his bet and get me that damn shirt.

  I managed to avoid Miranda on Monday, too, by heading in to work early and staying late.

  She kept calling and finally left a voice mail. “I really, really need to talk to you about Brady.”

  Delete. Not yet.

  I also ignored three more phone calls from Brady. I supposed it wasn’t fair. They didn’t know I’d seen them together. Miranda would be furious with me for not returning her calls, but I was still hardening up my emotions. Kind of like a crab that had molted and needed to grow its new shell.

  Brady’s messages were vague. “I really want to talk to you, Jane. Please return my calls. Unless you’ve got laryngitis. Or donated your vocal chords to science. Please, just call.”

  By Wednesday morning when I dragged myself into work I was miserable. Even the darling ragdoll cat we were boarding for a week didn’t cheer me up.

  I got ready in exam room one for a new client bringing in a kitten. Maybe it would be a cute little bugger who would make me smile. I looked up when the door opened. My mouth dropped, but nothing came out.

  “Hi, Jane. I’d like you to meet Fluffy.”

  “Brady? What are you doing with a kitten? What are you doing here?”

  “I needed to see you. You wouldn’t answer my calls, you’re never home. So, I figured you couldn’t refuse a guy with a new cat.” He held it up next to his face and smiled.

  “Miranda doesn’t like cats. Or maybe you two have broken up already? She’s like that.” God, I could be such a brat.

  He set the cat down on the exam table and made a time-out sign with his hands. “What are you talking about?”

  I looked down and pinched the bridge of my nose. “I saw you leaving her apartment Sunday morning. And Fluffy is such a boring name.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “I didn’t know you were getting a cat, or I would have objected.”

  He shook his head. “No, about seeing me at Miranda’s?” His kitten jumped down to the floor, inspecting the place.r />
  “Yes, interrupt your post-coital embrace.”

  He rubbed his face with his hands while his kitten brushed against my ankles. I picked it up and stroked its head.

  “I was over there asking her about you.”

  “Me?” I pressed my hand against my chest. “What about me? If I would object to the two of you getting together?”

  “I like you, Jane. I really like you. I didn’t realize it at first, but that’s why I wouldn’t let you go out with any of those other guys. My brother? Only if you want to kill me.”

  I crossed my arms with the kitty pressed against my chest and tapped my foot. “If you like me, why did you have to talk to her about it?”

  His hands circled the air, as he struggled to answer. “For some reason, I can’t let you know how I really feel about you without it coming out like a joke. I needed her advice. And no, I’m not interested in someone like her, with her tally of conquests and plans for worldwide man domination. When I met you, it was like I got knocked over the head and could think of nothing but you. Only, getting hit over the head made me too stupid to realize what was going on. I’ve been a bit gun-shy since I broke up with my ex.”

  He reached for my hand but I gave him his cat instead. This wasn’t Jerry Maguire. He didn’t have me at hello. “But you were acting so strange when we went out to dinner. I definitely wasn’t getting any ‘I’m interested’ signals from you.”

  He sighed. “I know. I was nervous, and I didn’t know how to be serious around you and tell you how I really felt. What if you made a joke out of it?”

  I pretended to tidy up the counter, moving a box of plastic gloves around and wiping up a spot that wasn’t there. “I thought you were asking me out because you felt sorry for me.” Wincing, I thought of the frizzy-haired girl and her chardonnay.

  He walked over and took me by the arm. “Please, blame it on medication, or a mental illness, or temporary stupidity. I want you, Jane.”

  I let the words play back in my head. He wants me. “No joke?”

  He shook his head. “No joke.” He swallowed and looked down at the floor. “I just hope you feel the same.”

  I turned to him and stared, looking for a trace of sarcasm or teasing. But there was none. Slowly, I wrapped my arms around him like I’d imagined doing so many times. “I do.” I squeezed tightly and pressed my eyes shut. “I’ve felt this way since the first night I met you.”

  His hands cupped my shoulders. “I guess I’m a little slow.”

  “Or maybe it’s environmental poisoning. But you’re worth the wait.”

  He bent down and brushed his lips against mine. Fluffy jumped onto the exam table and rubbed against my hip, reminding me I was at work. I broke away from our kiss. “I can’t do this.”

  His eyes widened. “What?”

  I turned away from him. “I have to examine your cat.” I looked at him over my shoulder and smiled. “We’ll have to try that again when I’m off the clock.”

  He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God. I thought you were going to tell me you were joining the Peace Corps.”

  “Or a nunnery.”

  “Or worse—starting a list like Miranda’s.” He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed the back of my head.

  My stomach rolled in delight. Then I felt guilty for thinking he and Miranda had hooked up. “I need to apologize to her. I haven’t returned her calls, either.”

  “You’d better. Last I checked she was looking at bridesmaid’s dresses for what she predicts will be our upcoming nuptials.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Well, she was checking out venues for a bachelorette party.”

  “Now that I believe.”

  A week later, I wandered into the bar alone, since Miranda was in the Bahamas with her new beau. Still hadn’t found an Australian with a yacht, though. But, I figure it’s good for her to have goals. Brady saw me and waved.

  I scowled at the line of girls at the bar. I scanned the rafters for new bras but there weren’t any recent additions.

  I found a stool and sat down. I tossed a small shopping bag at Brady and he caught it. “What’s this?”

  “I’m settling up on our bet.”

  He pulled out the t-shirt and smiled. “I’m taken,” he read.

  One of the girls in front of him pouted. “Aww, you are?”

  He looked at me and smiled. “Yes, I am.”

  “And his girlfriend is crazy,” I told her, twirling my finger in a circle next to my head. “You don’t want to mess with her.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  Brady nodded. “She’s gotten into fights over me.”

  “She’s been in jail,” I offered.

  “The psych ward,” he added.

  I nodded. “She even made that shirt just to keep women away.”

  The girls were wide-eyed. “Why are you, like, dating her then?” one asked.

  He looked at me and smiled. “She’s funny, and beautiful, and she gets me.”

  I held up one finger. “Wait, I thought it was because you were afraid she’d kick your ass if you broke up with her?”

  “Well, yes. There’s that too.”

  “Awww, you sweetie,” I said, leaning across the bar for a kiss. “But wear the shirt anyway.”

  His dimples appeared as he smiled and met my lips. “Always.”

  *

  She’s at the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Is there any chance he’s Mr. Right?

  “Wrong Place, Right Guy”

  By Lisa Scott

  I was on my way to a bar decorated with bras—wondering if I’d be required to donate mine—when I spotted a cute guy walking toward me. With his sandy brown hair and bright polo shirt, I thought he was potential date material—until he pulled a knife on me.

  “Keep quiet, darlin’, and we’ll be fine.” He turned the silver switchblade round and round in his hand as we stood in the empty parking lot.

  My heart clobbered my chest and I threw my purse in front of me. “Take it. It’s a Coach. It’s real.” Backing away from him, I clutched the big wallpaper sample book I was returning to the store before hitting the bar. My muscles twitched as if itching to attack. But I was frozen.

  He stepped over the purse toward me. “I was interested in the purse until I got a closer look at you.” The smell of rank, stale beer hit me. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

  The knife was inches from my throat. I tried to swallow but my mouth was parched. It was after eight o’clock, and all of the businesses that shared the parking lot were closed. There were a few vehicles, but no sign of anyone. The sun was starting to slip in the sky on the warm summer night, casting long shadows on the pavement.

  The man sneered, heat radiating off him. A bead of sweat slid down his tanned face. With his bright white teeth and blue eyes, he had looked like a model at first glance. Now he looked like a lunatic.

  Such are my dating instincts.

  The knife glinted in the sun as he looked me up and down.

  I took another step back. If I’d learned anything from my afternoon dates with Oprah, it was never to be taken to the second crime scene. That’s where the bad stuff always went down. I had to gather my wits and do something, fast.

  I held up my hands, trying to invoke the voice of reason. “Just take the purse and no one needs to get hurt. Please.”

  He laughed. “It won’t hurt unless you fight.”

  I shoved the wallpaper book into his chest, hoping to knock him down, but he grabbed it out of my hands and threw it aside. “Bitch!”

  His face was twisted and angry as he lunged for me. When I dodged to the side, a man jumped from the sky, knocking the attacker to the ground with a thud. They scuffled for control, swearing and stirring up dust and dirt. Then the attacker rolled over and held his knife to my hero’s throat. “This doesn’t involve you.”

  I should’ve run, but my adrenaline was MIA. I tried to find my voice to sc
ream for help, but it was gone, too. Apparently, I was born with no survival instincts.

  The man on the ground gripped the attacker’s arm and head-butted him. The bad guy snarled above him and struggled to free his arm—and the knife.

  This guy’s going to get killed because of me. That’s what finally kicked in my courage. I jumped on the bad guy and straddled him from behind, grabbed his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and wrenched the knife from him.

  Just like we’d practiced in tae kwon do class the week before. Without the knife, of course. I stood up and the other man pried his way out from underneath him. I pressed my shiny black pump against the attacker’s neck for good measure. That wasn’t exactly one of our official moves, but he remained pinned to the ground. “It won’t hurt unless you fight,” I said. But there wasn’t much fight left in the guy.

  The other man hopped up and ran for my purse. He was shirtless and bleeding.

  “What the hell? You’re going to rob me now?” I held the knife back like I might throw it at him.

  That’s when the guy on the ground bit my ankle. I jerked my foot away and he rolled over, taking me down with him, right on my rear.

  The other guy dove on him, knocking him away.

  Pulling myself up into a squat, I pointed the knife at the attacker. “Don’t move.”

  He gazed up my skirt and smiled, blood dripping from his mouth. “Nice panties.”

  The jumper punched him in the face and the man’s head hit the pavement. He didn’t move after that, but I kept the knife pointed at him and set my foot on his chest in case he tried to get up again. My heart was ready to burst. I glanced down at my ankle. Luckily, he hadn’t broken the skin. The blood in his mouth must’ve been his own.

  A black dog bounded across the parking lot toward my savior. “Nice timing, Winston. You show up now?” The dog sat down, his tail thumping the pavement, while the guy went back for my purse. “I’m not stealing it; I’m looking for your cell phone to call police. I don’t have mine on me.”’

  I squeezed my eyes shut, embarrassed. “Sorry, I’m in defense mode.” I wiggled my fingers at him. “Bring it here.”