The Modern Gentleman Page 6

  THE FIRST GESTURE

  “Didn’t think we’d see you in here tonight.” Roman kicks out a chair from the table where he and Caden are sitting. “Did your rendezvous not go as well as you hoped?”

  There’s only one reason I’m sitting in this loud, busy restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen with my friends right now instead of at home in a pair of sweatpants.

  And that reason is my walk with June.

  My short walk with June.

  I order a glass of water, not in the mood for alcohol, and run my hand through my hair. “The date, if that’s what you want to call it, went well. We clicked, she asked serious questions and I answered them truthfully.”

  “What kind of serious questions?” Caden asks.

  I take the next few minutes recounting the fifteen-minute “date” I shared with June, making sure to touch upon her surprising questions, acknowledge her body language, and inform the boys how much I’m attracted to not only her looks, but to her offbeat personality.

  “She’s into me. I could see it in her eyes, in the way I caught her staring at me—but she was also very guarded. We hung out for fifteen minutes and when it was time to leave, she patted my cheek and took off. It was very strange, but I also somewhat liked it.”

  I really did like it, but sitting here now, recounting the date, my big question is, why is she so damn reluctant?

  “Patted your cheek? Like a grandma?” Roman asks. “You sure she’s into you?”

  I sure as hell hope so.

  “Yeah, she’s different and I feel different when I’m with her. Almost as if I don’t know what to say. It’s weird.” I lean back in my chair and rest my hands on my lap. “And I don’t know what to do now. Normally, I’d text a woman, let her know I had a good time, and I can’t wait to see her again. And if I was feeling up to it, I’d call her.”

  It’s The Modern Gentleman way of doing things.

  Date.

  Text.

  Follow-up date.

  It’s the perfect equation, and yet, it’s not perfect for June.

  “What’s holding you back? The fifteen minutes?” Caden asks. “Didn’t seem like a real date?”

  “Maybe it was a real date, maybe it was a meetup. I’m not looking for a definition here. The problem is I don’t have her number.”

  Roman snorts. “Seriously, dude?”

  “Yes, seriously,” I answer, exasperated. “She still won’t give it to me, but we plan on meeting up again tomorrow, same time, same place.” And yeah, I honestly liked seeing her today, but I want more.

  “She should start paying you a percentage of her dog-walking money if she keeps this up,” Roman adds like an ass.

  Ignoring Roman, Caden continues, “Did you straight up ask for her number again?”

  “I did. I asked for it so we could talk tonight after her dance class. Instead, she said we can talk tomorrow.” Frustrated, I let out a heavy breath. “How the hell am I supposed to tell my readers to do anything when the woman I’m trying to date doesn’t have a damn cell phone?”

  “Yeah, that’s hard. The only person I know who doesn’t have a cell phone is my grandma,” Roman says, “but that’s because she uses a walker and refuses to be distracted by a phone. She has one of those emergency buttons she wears around her neck instead. Pretty damn funny when I joke about pressing it. She gets all up in a tizzy.”

  “That’s a dick thing to do,” Caden chastises. “Don’t mess with your grandma, dude.”

  “Eh, she says it gets her feathers ruffled. Gets her blood pumping in a good way. She’s cool like that.”

  Wanting to bring the conversation back to me, I ask, “What should I do?”

  Roman sips his drink. “Nothing you can do. You know next to nothing about her, and you don’t have any means of contacting her besides showing up at the park at a certain time. Looks like you have no choice but to go at her pace.”

  “But what about Frank? He’s going to want juicy details about how The Modern Gentleman works. How the hell am I supposed to conjure up a good article by writing about fifteen-minute walks with a dog named General Fitzbum?” I sigh. “By now, if it was any other woman besides June, I’d have her number, know where she works, and have a bouquet ready to be sent there tomorrow morning.”

  “Flowers are so cliché.” Roman rolls his eyes.

  “I didn’t say flowers. I said bouquet, asshole.”

  “Okay,” Roman says, rising to the challenge. “What kind of bouquet would you send June?”

  What do I know about her? She doesn’t seem to care for any kind of technology. Does she even have a TV? I want to say yes—she can’t be that out of touch, can she? Let’s see. She likes dogs, asking random questions, and is very outgoing. She loves the theater, is passionate about acting, and she looks drop-dead gorgeous in yellow.

  Memories of her in that flowy, yellow dress, walking so casually, her hair flipping over her shoulder when she spoke to me, a glint in those turquoise eyes . . . made me want to know her better. Fuck, she’s beautiful. And what makes her more enticing is her depth, what she really cares about. She couldn’t care less about where I live, my “life stats,” or what I do. She wants to know the bare bones of me, what’s holding me all together. And hell, if that’s not refreshing.

  I’ve never met anyone like her.

  “Dude, are you going to answer the question?” Roman presses.

  Oh shit, yeah.

  I clear my throat. “A bouquet of things to do on a random Wednesday.” Yeah, that’s a really good answer actually. Both Caden and Roman look at me as if I lost my mind. “It’s a question she asked me today. Where is my favorite place to be on a random Wednesday? I told her my house, binge-watching Netflix.”

  “If I could binge-watch shows for a living, I would.” Roman looks into his drink pensively, as if the job offer he’s waiting for is floating in there.

  “I think everyone would, man.” Caden knocks his shoulder and then turns to me. “What would be in this bouquet?”

  I shrug. “Random things. Mad Libs, crossword puzzles, popcorn, things to do that don’t require technology.”

  “You see her tomorrow?” Roman asks. I nod. “Bring her the fucking thing. Maybe that will win her over and you can score her number.”

  Huh, he might be onto something. Look at Roman being a thoughtful fuck.

  I sip the water the waitress sets in front of me as I eye Roman over my glass. “That’s actually a pretty good idea. Have you been reading my column?”

  The smile on Roman’s face tells me that the next thing out of his mouth is going to make me want to punch him right in his perfect teeth.

  “Man, I should have your job. You’re whining about not having the girl’s number and I’m over here making things happen.” He pops up his collar. “Yup, they should start calling me The Modern Gentleman.”

  Called it. If I was my old self, my fist would be itching right about now, but I’m sophisticated now. I’ll probably just “accidentally” trip him on the way out of the bar while hailing a cab. That, gents, is not passive aggression. It’s simply a condition of living in New York City where the sidewalk can be uneven. When you want them to be.

  I’ll give him a break though. Thanks to him, I’m thinking about the stops I need to make before tomorrow. I have a “bouquet” to create.

  * * *

  Talk about obnoxious. This was a bad idea.

  A really bad idea.

  This is why I should never listen to Roman.

  I’m standing in the meeting spot, feeling increasingly ridiculous with each passing minute as an obnoxious, large basket dangles from the crook of my arm. The straw monstrosity is full of all different flavors of popcorn, Mad Libs, crossword puzzles, and teal-colored pens.

  I might have gone slightly overboard.

  A bag of popcorn topples over the side for the hundredth time and I pick it up, shoving it into the basket, not caring about how it looks anymore.

  Okay, I went way overboard.
The basket is brimming with treats and I clearly didn’t know where to stop. Desperation crept in last night and I ended up buying at least ten different flavors of gourmet popcorn from the specialty grocery in my neighborhood. In my defense, I don’t know what she actually likes. I’d like to know, but I already know that would be a “menial” question and heaven forbid I ask one of those.

  I run a frustrated hand over my face, wishing the circumstances were different. If I didn’t feel pressure from Frank at the prospect of losing my job, I’d probably approach June differently. I probably wouldn’t be as nervous, or scatterbrained, or clumsy.

  I’d go at her pace.

  Not feel the pathetic desperation to score her number.

  I let out a long breath when I’m greeted with one hell of a beautiful sight walking toward me, General Fitzbum leading the charge.

  She’s wearing a purple T-shirt dress, her wavy hair is piled into a bun on the top of her head, and her smile when she spots me stretches across her gorgeous face, lighting up her eyes.

  Damn.

  Okay, maybe I can be patient, especially when the girl I’m waiting for is June.

  Pushing away from the tree, I greet her. “Hey, June.”

  She eyes the basket and smirks at me. “Really angling for that phone number, aren’t you?”

  I have to say, her teasing is fun. Quirky.

  “If I had it, I could have called to ask where to send this instead of bringing it to the park.”

  “And where’s the fun in that?” She takes the basket and starts sorting through its contents. “Teal pens?”

  I shrug sheepishly. “They match your eyes.”

  Slowly, she studies me with a touch of skepticism before saying, “You’re dangerous today, Wesley Waldorf Williams.” She motions with her finger at my outfit. “Black pants and a black shirt, smooth responses. I better watch myself or I might surrender my number to you as a result of your seductive ways.”

  Chuckling, I say, “Black clothes are a weakness for you?”

  “Not really. Most male dancers turn up to practice in all black. It’s simply easier.” She takes me in again. “But on you, with your muscles all ripply, and your broody eyes, yeah, I very well might be in trouble today.”

  Hear that, gents? A compliment, and yeah, it sends a jolt of hope through my veins.

  “Good to know.” I look down at General Fitzbum and ask, “How’s the general today?”

  “Moving slow. Mrs. Fitzbum ran out of his pain medication. It should be here tonight, but I don’t think I’m going to take him very far in the meantime.”

  “Maybe he’d fancy a bone while we sit at that bench over there and enjoy a crossword puzzle and some popcorn.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a bone. No stone unturned today.

  She chuckles and shakes her head. “Oh yeah, you’re really on point. All right, let’s sit down. I’m sure the general will enjoy the treat you brought him.”

  “And what about you? Think you’ll enjoy the treats I brought you?”

  “I actually don’t like popcorn.”

  She takes a seat on the bench as my shoulders deflate. Who doesn’t like popcorn? Isn’t that a universal thing like pizza and ice cream? Everyone’s supposed to like it.

  I sit down next to her and hand General Fitzbum his bone. “Damn. You really don’t like popcorn?”

  Pulling out the strawberry-flavored popcorn, she pops the bag open and throws a few pieces in her mouth. “Nah, I love it, but I felt like you were on a bit of a cocky high there for a second. I needed to fish you out of the clouds.”

  Jesus . . . this woman.

  “You sure know how to deflate a guy,” I say while pulling out the lime popcorn and opening the bag, relieved. That could have been an issue since popcorn’s my favorite snack.

  “Deflate? Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I just told you how hot I think you are in those clothes.”

  I grin. “I don’t remember you saying hot, but let’s talk more about that.”

  She rolls her eyes at me and points at the basket. “What’s with the present? Besides the obvious issue of wanting my number. What’s the theme here?”

  I snag a handful of strawberry popcorn from her and say, “Remember our conversation from yesterday, when you asked what I’d be doing on a random Wednesday?” She nods, chewing on some more popcorn. “This is your random Wednesday basket. It’s supposed to be a bouquet, but I got carried away yesterday so it turned into a basket.”

  “Crosswords, Mad Libs, and popcorn, that’s your random Wednesday?”

  “With Netflix in the background of course.” I smile.

  “Oh, of course.” She eyes the basket again and touches my arm gently. “Thank you, Wes. This is very sweet of you.”

  Relieved she actually likes the idea, I try to play it cool and not get too excited. Hopefully by the end of our meetup I can score more than just another walk with the general. I turn on the charm, but not too much. “I wanted to do something nice for you, show you that I’m interested; I want to know you better.”

  “And you figured popcorn was the way to my heart?”

  “I was hoping.” I flash her a smile.

  She nods, eyeing me. “It’s a stepping stone. The bone for General Fitzbum was a leap.”

  And that was a last-minute thought. Thank God I trusted my instincts.

  “Good to know.” I nod at the Mad Libs. “Want to fill one out?”

  “Uh . . . yeah!”

  I hate to admit Roman had a good idea, it’s incredibly painful actually, but that smile on her face, that infectious joy? Yeah, I should buy my guy a drink as a thank-you.

  The worst part is, I’ve written about a gesture like this in my column many times, and yet, I had to hear it from my friend to remember. June Lacy is throwing me off my razor-sharp game. Once I get her phone number, all will be right in the world.

  Her enthusiasm is infectious as we spend the next twenty minutes filling out Mad Libs, eating popcorn, and patting General Fitzbum on the head while he sloshes away, licking his bone. When she asks me for words, I can’t help but stare at her as she eagerly writes in my answers. She’s so damn lively, especially when she’s having fun, and it transfers over to her beauty and appeal. Fuck, I thought she was pretty before, but when she’s smiling, laughing, having a good time, she’s downright sexy. I lean in toward her, wanting to be as close as possible, but being careful not to scare her away.

  The Modern Gentleman never moves too fast, but when he does move in for the kill, he makes sure his woman knows his exact intentions.

  As I finish reading her Mad Lib, I look at her and say, “You know, there are other body parts you could list.”

  “No way. Making you say boobies is too much fun.” She snickers and then claps her hands together. “When you said something about throwing sixty-nine boobies in your mouth, tasting the color of the rainbow, oh God, I about died.”

  “Yeah, the people across the park heard you.”

  She chuckles some more. “I wish I had it on video.”

  “If you had a cell phone, you could have,” I counter with a smirk.

  “Cheeky.” She leans back on the bench and looks at the sky. We stopped eating popcorn a while ago, and I’m pretty sure General Fitzbum passed out on the ground, snoring away. “Ever wonder what it’s like to be able to fly?”

  Did she say something?

  I’m too distracted. I take in the graceful curve of her neck and the way her breasts push against the fabric of her dress. This woman has me ogling, something I always tell my readers to refrain from doing. No one likes a creepy perv, but fuck, I can’t stop staring at her.

  Her head whips forward, catching me as I scramble to tear my eyes from her chest and make eye contact. I swallow hard and nod. “Flying, yeah. That’s fun. Wings and stuff.”

  What? Wings and stuff? Jesus, man.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Were you checking me out?”

  Two ways I can answer this question. I can remove m
y proverbial tie, step down from my pedestal of The Modern Gentleman, and lie, or I can cinch that Windsor knot and practice what I preach—always speaking the truth.

  “Yes, I was.” I go with the latter, and there is no shame in my voice. I’m a man, she’s attractive, and there’s nothing wrong with telling her that.

  “That’s what I thought.” She shakes her head and stands from the bench. She straightens her dress out and pats General Fitzbum on the head. “Come on, old fella, we have to get you home.” Without another word, she starts walking away.

  Uh . . .

  Fuck!

  I scramble to my feet, stuffing popcorn, Mad Libs, and pens back in the basket, and chase after her, panicking. “June, wait up. I didn’t mean to offend you.” When I catch up, I gently pull on the hand that’s not holding General Fitzbum’s leash. “I’m sorry,” I say, hoping she doesn’t hold my honesty against me.

  When she looks up at me, I’m confused—what I’m expecting to see isn’t what I get. I expect to see her eyes angry, fuming maybe. But they’re smiling, light, playful.

  Reaching up, she strokes my cheek with her thumb and fuck if I don’t melt right there. “I’m only playing with you, Wes.” Standing on her toes, she wraps her arm around my neck and gives me a hug. My mind barely registers what’s happening long enough to wrap an arm around her before she’s pulling away.

  Another missed opportunity.

  Pull it together, man.

  She takes the basket from me as she steps back. “Thank you for this, it was very kind of you.” Smirking, she adds, “It was also very kind of you to check me out. It’s nice to know when a girl is appreciated.”

  I grip the back of my neck, still confused about what just happened. “Uh, yeah, anytime.”

  She laughs and sways back and forth with the basket bouncing against her hip. “Are you going to ask me out again, Wes?”

  Despite her dizzying unpredictability, I want to see her, desperately. It’s not just her appearance that has me begging for more, it’s her ability to capture me with one question, one smirk, one grumbly nod from General Fitzbum. She’s unique, unlike any woman I’ve ever met. And even though she exudes this perky, joyful persona, there’s something heavy in her heart. I glimpse it when I ask for her number, when she bites her lip, wondering if I’m someone she can trust. I want to know why she tries to hide behind her smile. Just like her, I want to get to the bare bones of her soul.