“Bwah ha ha.” She boomed with laughter. “Smooth talker.”
The next twenty minutes were the most enchanting of his life. She never stopped talking or being a delight. He walked her back to the restaurant and said goodbye under a spotlight in the parking lot.
“Till tomorrow, sweet Summer.”
3
“Sunset in Santa Barbara,” the class instructor called out. “Nicely done, guys! Give yourselves a round of applause.”
Clapping enthusiastically, Summer made eye contact with the whole room of people, smiled, and gave out a few thumbs-up. The painting class wasn’t challenging, but the results sure were pretty and very, very different.
Beside her, Arnie was yukking it up with Charlie, the guy who sat next to him. She looked around both men and met the gaze of Charlie’s date. Grown men could act like such boys. She and the woman smiled and rolled their eyes.
As they gathered their stuff, Arnie’s breath tickled her ear, and he gave a playful nudge. “This was great fun.” He slid their masterpieces into a large tote bag. “And the chardonnay was tasty.”
“I wish you would have let me pay,” she griped. “How can this be a date if you pay for everything?”
They almost got into a fight checking in for the class when he reached for his wallet. Their brief argument was cut off by the others waiting to check in.
His heavy sigh surprised her. She was beginning to recognize his deeper, more serious moments. Most of the time, he led with humor, and he was good at it too.
“I can’t believe these words are coming out of my mouth, but here it is. Letting you pay is emasculating. I know it’s sexist bullshit,” he hurried to explain, “but it doesn’t change how I feel.”
The emphasis was revealing.
Summer immediately felt bad and wondered, Why does it have to be this way? Why should it matter?
She knew the answer. He displayed nice manners, used big words, and had a wicked sense of humor. But he was also one hundred percent American male—arrogant, cocky, and oozing with alpha pheromones. Letting a woman pay was not in his wheelhouse.
In the parking lot, he was an easygoing gentleman, holding her car door open and helping to buckle her in safely.
The Tesla he picked her up in was quite a ride. He started the car and looked at her sharply.
“That sound would be my stomach growling,” she admitted with a self-conscious smirk.
“This is your party, sunshine lady.” He grinned broadly. She could feel his enjoyment as it rolled off him in waves. He might not play along when it came to who was footing the bill, but he sure was having a good time with pretending she was in charge. “Since this is your date, I’m assuming there’s a dinner plan.”
Summer frowned and awkwardly cleared her throat. She could pretend otherwise, but the unvarnished nutritional truth about her life was that it sucked. Her food pyramid consisted of a preference for mindless convenience topped by whichever part of the hormonal wave she was riding at any given moment and a layer or two of common sense with wishful thinking squeezed in.
This bent toward ease with zero regard for her health extended to the food establishments she frequented. It had not occurred to her until now that Arnie might have different needs.
“Uh, well,” she stammered in a quiet voice. “Do you like food trucks?”
Biting her lip, she tried to appear casual and steeled herself for what she worried would be a big ole no on his part.
“Are you kidding? I fucking love a good truck. There are foodie turf wars in the city, and man, let me tell you”—he laughed in a husky tone—“some of those truck chefs are visionaries!”
She enjoyed how easily he laughed. And that wasn’t all. Maybe she was lost in a fanciful dream and would one day awaken to feel differently, but in the here and now, Summer was taken by his crystal blue eyes and the way his sexy mouth was always on the edge of laughter. The facial scruff enhanced his masculine aura, and let’s face it, she was a complete sucker for his confident manner.
“My favorite is Bucket of Syds.” He chortled and spelled the name. “Fantastic food, great name.”
“Syds?”
“Yeah. I know, right? It’s a play on bucket of suds and the chef’s name. Sydney Dalton.”
“Clever.” She chuckled.
His exuberance was irresistible. “The bucket refers to how they package the food. They use little pails and what they call side canoes. It’s awesome.”