their drinks, Arnie downed a dirty martini shot topped with an olive on a toothpick. The brine-to-vodka ration was tasty as fuck. He picked the olive off the stick with his teeth and enjoyed the salty nugget.
“Whoa,” he mumbled to himself. “That packed a punch.”
He gave the bartender a nod of thanks and handed off a fifty for the two drinks and a shot. Then because overtipping was kind of his thing, he dropped a second Ulysses S. Grant bill in a decorated tin can marked “Tips.”
The rush from the vodka shot was nothing compared to the tornado of desire swirling inside him as he held Summer’s gaze and somehow maneuvered successfully through the crowd. Her cheeks were flushed, and though she attempted to pretend otherwise, she definitely checked him out from head to toe with a lingering glance in the area of his zipper.
There needed to be a new ratings system for men’s underwear to address the boner issue because while he was annoyed before, now he was damn sure the Ralph Lauren briefs were no match for his growing interest in the enchanting Summer. She was a magical creature and even in a crowded room full of other people’s energy, she glowed like fairy light.
“Here we go.” He carefully placed the pink drink in front of her. “Got you two slices of lime.”
She made tiny clapping gestures and smiled. “There can never be too many garnishes.”
His dirty martini and its three olives helped make her point.
Arnie slid onto a chair and nudged closer to hers. The joint might be hopping, but he wanted to concentrate on the two of them, and the connection they were making.
“To ugly shoes and pretty waitresses,” he drawled with his glass held up.
She grimaced. “What happened to all those fancy words you like to use? Run out of the good ones?”
“Your, uh, beauty makes me stupid?”
Shaking her head while eyes shone with playfulness, she leaned close, and said, “To blonds.”
Her happy expression and the gentleness in her smile melted the wall around his heart. He trembled with awareness as their energies embraced. They smiled, touched glasses, and sipped in silence.
Wrapped up in the moment, he was aware of only one thing. Summer. Her fey quality made him think of otherworldly things. Did she have second-sight? He studied her eyes, fell into the smoky depths, and found at least part of an answer. Summer possessed something quite rare—an innocent heart.
They shared the loss of a mother early in life, but whereas he became jaded and resentful thanks to an evil stepmother, she hadn’t gone to the dark side. Instead, she protected her feelings from potential heartbreak.
Her emotional innocence set off alarms. Alarms he ignored.
“We’ve painted, chowed down on epic food truck cuisine, and done a Barbie and Ken performance. Best first date ever.” His smile matched hers.
“I wanted to stand out,” she said in a teasing voice. “Not all blondes are created equal.” She tapped her temple. “Some of us can form clear thoughts.”
Well, this seems like the perfect time for a blond joke, he thought and cleared his throat.
“What do you call five blondes lined up in a row?”
“Oh, my god!” She snickered. “I don’t know this one. Okay, go ahead. Tell me. What are five blondes in a row called?”
“A wind tunnel.” He paused for effect and then nudged her. “Get it? A wind tunnel?”
They shared a laugh and fist-bumped.
Adorably bossy Summer told him to wrap it up. “Finish your drink. Enough sitting. I need to move. What time is it?”
He finished what was left of the martini and olives and checked his watch. “Nine forty-five.”
Standing, Arnie slipped effortlessly into gentleman mode and helped his lovely lady from her chair, patiently waiting while she made sure she had everything.
A gust of night air greeted them as they walked along the sidewalk. He was ready to run for the car and turn on the heat, but Summer had other ideas. She took his hand and pulled him into a neighborhood park, heading straight for the playground.
“Swings!” she exclaimed gleefully and dropped his hand. “I love swings.”
They sat side by side, swinging lazily while behind them, a group of guys played basketball under the watchful eyes of a huddle of women.
“One day, when I was in fourth grade, Timmy Shultz got carried away on the swings. Showing off,” she drawled. “He kept going higher and got yelled at by the playground teacher but didn’t stop. He kicked when he should have swung and ended