The Sun and the Moon (Giving You ... #1) (9 page)

LATER THAT AFTERNOON,
I called Marie from the Paseo Nuevo shopping center, in a panic, after I had texted her pictures of plates, placemats, table cloths, stemware, and candles. This was my way of dealing with the fact that I would be seeing Ryan in just a few short hours.

At my house.

"He's coming over, Marie. He's bringing dinner. I need new plates."

"Step away from the Pottery Barn, Amelia."

"But I give good table."

"Step away."

"But he's coming tonight!"

"Do I need to kick your ass? What you have is fine."

I sighed. She was right. I needed to head home and get ready for whatever Ryan had planned for tonight.

Appetizers and Dessert

A TALL, TAN, SURFER
hunk stood on my doorstep in the evening sun, his golden hair gleaming and his eyes sparkling.

Special delivery. For me.

He again wore a plaid, short-sleeved, button-down shirt, with a white t-shirt underneath, dark jeans, and flip flops. God, even his feet were attractive. The shirt hugged his biceps and the jeans hung, in a sexy way, down his hips. He carried two bouquets of small white rosebuds, and two Trader Joe's grocery bags.

"Hi!" I chirped, overly cheery. "Come on in." I wore a petal pink, cashmere, V-neck sweater and jeans. Comfy but elegant.

Oh, and I had on new lingerie underneath.

He looked down at me and smiled his Sun God smile. Then he stepped into my home, dropped the bags and the flowers on the foyer, and grabbed me. One hand curled around my back, the other headed to my ass, as he pressed himself to me. I loved it.  I immediately scooted my arms up around his neck, and reached one hand to his soft, curly hair. He leaned in and kissed me, and of course he kissed me senseless, his tongue chasing mine, his warm mouth welcoming. Damn, he smelled clean and good. Damn, he looked good close up.

All of the things that I had been worrying about before he came over—tidying the house, setting the table, checking my makeup, generally fussing—evaporated.

"I've been wanting to do that for a while," he said in his sexy, husky voice, after he broke apart with a quiet groan. He pressed his forehead to mine, and looked at me, smiling. And it was like my brain went to voicemail.

Amelia's brain is out of service at this time. Please try your call again later.

I mustered a breathy response of "me too." He looked at me intently.

"Hi," he whispered, running his finger down my nose, and bopping it on the end.

"Hi," I whispered back.

He let me go, picked up the bags, sauntered into my kitchen, like he owned it, and started to take groceries out of the bags. "Can you arrange the flowers and I'll make dinner?"

I didn't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.  That said, I’d take it.

"Sounds good to me." Sure, I would let him handle dinner.  Did he want to clean my house for me too?  WTF?  Was he for real?

I pulled out a wide, low, clear, cylindrical vase for the white rosebuds, got some scissors, and cut the stems quite short so that they were even with the top of the vase. This made it a rather chic arrangement. Like I said, I gave good table.  Then, I wrapped up the stems in newspaper, so that I wouldn't prick myself with the thorns.

"Thanks for the flowers," I said. "White roses are actually my favorite."

He grinned.  "Lucky guess on my part.  I like them, too."  He walked over to the table, and inspected the vase. Turning to me, and running his finger down my cheek, he said, "They reminded me of you. You knew just what to do with them." He plucked a petal from one flower, and fingered it.  I noticed that he touched the softness of the rose while I tried to avoid the thorns.

Deep thoughts, Amelia. Focus.

"So," I said brightly. "What did you bring?"

"Appetizers, wine, beer, and stuff to make chicken pasta and salad. Chocolate cake for dessert. Will that work?"

I was stunned, but this time not by his masculine beauty or damn gravitational pull, but how, um, perfect he was. My favorite flowers. Good food.  Chocolate. And he was cooking. "Yep. That’ll work." I aimed for nonchalance, and failed miserably.

"You hungry?" he asked.  

I was actually ravenous but I shrugged. "A little." I didn't want to look too eager, abiding by another ancient girl law: never admit that you're actually hungry.  He started rummaging around in my cabinets, and pulled out a platter. Then he pulled out cheese, crackers, and grapes from the brown paper bag and set them on the counter.

"What would you like to drink?" he asked.

"Beer is fine."

I pulled out an opener, handed it to him and he opened two beers, giving me one. Then he clinked his bottle with mine and took a pull.  I must have looked at him a little warily, because he started reassuring me.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to jump you. I want to get to know you." He pulled out a knife from a drawer, a cutting board from my cabinet, and started slicing cheese, and arranging it with the crackers, on the platter. He washed the grapes, shook off the water, and set them on the side. Then he placed the snacks on the counter next to me and asked, "This okay?"

"More than," I muttered, truthfully.

"Open," he ordered, and popped a grape in my mouth.  

I chewed, swallowed, and then laughed. "You really need to be shirtless and holding a fan when you do that again."

"Noted." He popped a grape into his own mouth, and made me a little plate, of cheese, crackers, and grapes. Then he made himself a little plate of the same, and started rummaging around for pans.

"Don't you want me to help you? I feel funny just sitting here."

"Nope. It’s cool," he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. "I always liked cooking."

The awkwardness between us started to drop away. I nibbled on the cheese and crackers and grapes and drank my beer, while he chattered away about how his friend Yoda—I laughed at the name—taught him to cook, and how he loved Trader Joe's. "They have everything." He boiled water for pasta, sliced vegetables for salad and the pasta sauce, opened up jars of olives, and cut chicken. He told me about how busy the coffee shop was this week, and how he had a great time surfing that day, before he came over to my house. He used my olive oil, salt, and pepper, and cooked a chicken-olive-vegetable sauce for the pasta. He even had a wedge of Parmesan—the good stuff. He dressed the salad, put it in a bowl, and set out the chocolate cake on a plate.

In response to all of this, I shook my head with a small smile at his complete and total competence.  He caught my look. "Restaurant business, Amelia," he explained.

"Were you ever a chef?"

"Nope. Just picked stuff up, mostly from Yoda."

While he cooked and stirred, he opened up a bottle of white wine and got out glasses, and set the salad on the table.  I had set an elegant table, and when dinner was ready, we sat down. He pulled out my seat for me, put my freaking napkin in my freaking lap, and then went to get our dinner, which he had put on a platter to serve.  It smelled heavenly.

I didn't know what I had done to deserve him, but I wasn't going to complain.

He sat himself, poured the wine, and handed me a glass. Then he raised his glass to me, but instead of a toast, he asked, "You know we went to high school together, right?"

I nodded. "I looked you up in my yearbook," I admitted.

"I've had a crush on you since then."

I was astonished. "Really?"

"Really," he confirmed with a devastating grin. "I wanted to date you since the moment I saw you, and I have dreamed about you since then.  But the real you that I'm getting to know now, is so much more than the you back then, or the you of my imagination."  Holy fuck. He wasn’t scared to say how he felt.

"You were a freshman when I was a senior, right?"

"Yeah. So?"

"I don't want to feel like a cougar."

He laughed, a full male laugh. "I'm not one to tell you how to feel. You feel how you feel. I'm in this life to feel everything. Pleasure and pain. So feel how you feel, it's okay." Echoes of Christian Gray, my therapist. "That said, aren't we old enough for our ages not to matter?"

Wow. He was more mature than I thought. He was definitely more mature than me. He had this air about him, like he had figured out some truths about life. I smiled.  "It doesn't bother me, if it doesn't bother you."

"Nope."

I learned, as dinner went on, that he was devoted to his younger sister. That he surfed almost every day. That he had surfed competitively but stopped. That he really loved Kona and roasting coffee beans in small batches.  Then he admitted that he was a Harry Potter fan, and he liked Luna Lovegood the best. "Something about the moon," he muttered. This might work. As he talked, I found myself thinking that there might be more here than just me jumping his bones.  I liked the guy.  It was more than just physical attraction.

Relax, Amelia. This was a first date.

Once we got to the end of dinner, I felt happy and satisfied. A great dinner companion, he asked me questions, listened to the answers, talked about himself, and answered my questions. I loved finding out about him. He was so much more than a coffee shop surfer dude.

But still, the whole meal, all I wanted to do was crawl into his lap, take off his clothes, and get creative.

When I put down my wine glass at the end of dinner, I think he read the look on my face. "I'm not just a quick fuck, Amelia. Not with you. Not ever with you."

"Well, that's good to know," I said sarcastically, resorting to my usual habit of snark when I was faced with sincerity.

"You need to know something about me. I'm a sensualist."

I looked at him blankly.

"I explore pleasure," he explained patiently.

"Oh," I breathed, thoughts of sarcasm having vanished immediately.

"That means that I like to take my time. I like to feel things. I like to sense things. I like to explore. Can you handle that? Or are you the type who thinks that pleasure is bad?"

"Pleasure is bad," I repeated, semi-seriously.

He gave me a wicked grin.

"Let me see what I can do to convince you otherwise."

"But you're not going to do anything to me tonight?"

"No.  Not because I don't want to, but because I do."

"That doesn't make sense. Can
I
jump
you
?"

He laughed. "Look, I'm not apologizing for what happened in the hallway at Southwinds. Fuck, that was hot. But I want to get to know you."

I had to keep myself from whining. "How long is this self-imposed moratorium?"

"Until tomorrow. I think I can hold out that long."

"So we're talking midnight, right? Lawyer here wants to know the parameters."

"Until midnight," he affirmed.

"Are you going to stay until then?"

He laughed. "If you want me to. We'll see how it goes. In the meanwhile, I may ask you to show me your Ollivander wand, Hermione."

"Bastard," I muttered.

"What's something I need to know about you that you haven't told me?"  He looked at me intently, open and curious.

"Isn't that a bit heavy for a first date?"

"Nope." He waited and shrugged. "No pressure."

"Well, I could tell you the story about how I've been clinically depressed for more than a year, and am on antidepressants that make it so that you're the first man to make me come in quite a while."

Okay.  I could not believe that I just blurted that one out. I blamed it on the wine. And the fact that the damn Sun God made me actually feel comfortable. But this admission did not seem to faze him.

He looked at me, green eyes to blue, and said, "I want to know more about your depression, and what's happened to you, but you need to know that I'm up for any orgasm challenge you throw at me. Now, any interest in chocolate cake?"

Midnight

AT 8:33 P.M. BY THE
time on the microwave, which I had determined was the fastest clock in the house, Ryan tugged on my earlobe gently. As I turned toward him, he slipped a fork, speared with a small bite of chocolate cake, into my parted lips. I must have made a moaning noise, because I caught him adjusting his pants.