Moore To Love (16 page)

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have none.

Me: Leaving for Miami Wednesday morning.

Lane: Oh, nice! Business or pleasure?

Me: Business. Swimsuit runway show.

Lane: I knew you had to be a model! My gut is never wrong.

Snot flies out of my nose as I snort at his ludicrous mistake.

Me: You better check that gut, buddy. I’m not strutting anything on the catwalk. I’m a makeup artist. My team was hired for the shoot and the show.

Lane: Well, it’s their loss then. It should be you up there. I’d pay anything for a front row seat.

Oh my, my.
This is either one of those cases of texting balls or Lane is just a genuine sweetheart. My cynical nature finds it hard to believe it’s anything other than a daring compliment masked behind the security of the phone. I can’t even muster a witty reply because I’m not used to being on the receiving end of flattery. Rather than come off as insecure, I change the subject.

Me: No work for you today?

Lane: Nope. Twelve hour shift tomorrow.

I can leave it alone or make good on what I told him last night before he left. Is it too soon to cash in? My fingers decide to take the reigns without consulting my brain.

Me: Doing anything later? I could use a shopping buddy. If you’re game.

Did I really just ask him that like he’s some girlfriend you drag to the mall to try bras on with? And what if Tatum’s right about my shopping rage? I have to come up with another plan. Quick.

I start to type out an alternate idea—movies, bowling, anything—but Lane’s text beats me to it.

Lane: Sure, only if you let me take you to dinner afterwards.

For the second time in one day, I praise the gods of modern technology. If texting had never been invented, this would be an awkward phone conversation, and the ear-splitting squeal that just rocked my body would have sent him running.

I compose myself and answer with trembling fingers.

Me: You sure? I don’t want to put you out, it’s just that I have to get to the shops so I can pack before the trip.

Lane: You’re not putting me out. I’d love to join you. Text me what stores you want to hit up and I’ll think of a restaurant in the area so I can make reservations. Meet at your apartment at 3?

Good-looking, sweet, and thorough. Me likes.

We end our very productive text with a confirmation, and I bust a few very unattractive moves around my bedroom. Out of breath and adrenaline pumping, I psych myself up to call Tatum for outfit advice. She’s going to flip. I can hear her now. Surely, she’ll take credit for this being her idea in the first place.

Okay. Maybe I’ll wait to call her until I can bask in the joy of first date butterflies a few minutes longer.

HA! SUCK ON THAT, TATUM.
There were no outbursts at Bloomingdales or casualties at Urban Outfitters. And because I wore my favorite comfy Chucks, rather than the wedge boots she suggested, my dogs aren’t barking and Lane and I can enjoy a nice stroll through the narrow cobblestone streets of the West Village. Rather than cram into the grimy subway, we carelessly promenade Wooster and Prince Streets, soaking up the natural art all around us; quirky boutiques, antiquated buildings, the hum of the melting pot of tourists, transplanted residents and real-deal natives of the city. In my former days, I would celebrate my enjoyment with a dirty water dog from a street vendor as an appetizer, but since I’m being good, and want to keep the streak of non-embarrassment going, I’ll restrain.

“Ready to eat? All that shopping made me hangry!” Lane snarls as he politely grabs the bags out of my hands and meshes them with his own.

“Hey, you weren’t complaining when you scored the buy-one-get-one designer wife beaters.”

He arches a brow and nods. “This is true. And why you New Yorkers call it that I will never understand.”

“What? A wife beater?”

“Yes, it’s kind of stereotypical, don’t you think? I don’t plan on beating on a woman every time I wear a white cotton tank.”

“I get your point.” I laugh as a hasty cab driver nearly clips my ass while waiting at a corner to cross one of the not-too-crowded streets of SoHo. “But I guess it’s just one of those things you mid-westerners can’t relate to.”

During one of our conversations at the hospital this weekend, Lane told me all about his upbringing in Illinois. He lived there most of his life, until he moved to New York to attend college. While he hadn’t grown up on a farm, wrangling cattle and such, I like that he’s more mellow and laid-back than the guys from around here. New Yorkers like myself are known for being quick and abrupt, sometimes brash and forward.
If you don’t like it, fugetaboutit!
It’s easy to see that living in the city all this time certainly hasn’t tainted Lane’s easy going nature. It’s refreshing.

The insecurities that are usually at the forefront of my mind seem to melt away in the easy silence between the two of us. We walk inches apart, wordlessly enjoying each other’s company and that, too, is rather invigorating.

I follow Lane’s lead as he crosses the busy, buzzing intersection and hangs a left on the next block.

“So, where are you taking me again?”

“La Esquina,” he says, with an adorable attempt at a Spanish accent. “You did say you like Mexican, right?”

“
Si, señor
. It’s my favorite.” And it is, but suddenly I’m starved from all the shopping and walking and drool has accumulated at the corners of my mouth like a rabid animal.
No bueno
when you’re worried about what kind of diet friendly meal you can get at a place that’s known for its smothered corn on the cob and the most kick-ass
queso
north of the border. Even though the jeans I purchased earlier are three sizes smaller than my norm, the five pounds I put on during my recovery and the Mexican feast looming ahead bring my spirits down.

“Then why the long face?” Lane must notice the apprehension in my slowed pace and he bumps his hip with mine.

“Ugh. Calories.” Not something I’m proud to admit to a prospective date, but it’s the truth and I feel comfortable enough around Lane to let it out.

“Oh, don’t be crazy. You worked out this morning and we’ve been walking all afternoon. You’re allowed to live a little, Leni. Trust me.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter under my breath just as we approach the hostess stand outside the building made to look like a very unassuming diner.

Lane places a hand at the small of my back, grazing the dip where my butt becomes bubbly, and escorts me closer to the hostess. The raven-haired beauty eyeballs the two of us as if we’re a pair of mismatched socks. No doubt she sees me as the one with the ugly holes at the toes.

“Reservations for Sheffield.” Lane breaks Miss Judgmental out of her stupor and she reaches under the wooden podium for the menus. I don’t miss the confused slant of her brow as she appraises how close Lane’s body is to mine.
Yeah, chola. He’s with me. Fuck off.

“Right this way.” Bitch sways her mini-skirt clad hips dramatically as she leads us through the dim, cozy atmosphere.

I take in the quaint yet lively room, appreciating that Lane thought to take me somewhere so romantic. I would’ve never guessed it had such a classy Latin flair from the outside. Looks are deceiving—maybe that’s the theme of the night. The root of that belief takes hold and burgeons within me. Regardless of the disapproving glare from our hostess, I boldly take Lane’s hand in mine and squeeze with delicate fervor.

Placing the menus on the table, she politely hums, “Enjoy your evening.”

“Oh, we will.” I smile the fakest smile known to man and curtly wave her off.

The warmth of Lane’s hand leaves mine as he pulls my chair out for me. “This table okay?”

It’s secluded and toward the back corner of the dining room, but in full view of the band at the far end of the room. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Lane removes his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair before sitting. His olive-colored Henley makes his eyes look greener than normal even in the faint candlelight. And those arms. Guns, I tell ya. Lethal, sexy, weapons of mass ovary destruction. To think a man with such a perfect physique just had his hand entwined with me—a woman on the total opposite body-shape spectrum.

The waiter interrupts my self-doubting to ask if we’d like to order cocktails.

I start to ask for a water with lime, but Lane lays his hand atop mine. “Allow me?”

I nod with a curious smile and listen as he recites something off the menu that sounds totally complicated—and fattening.

I lean in, our hands still touching. “A water would’ve sufficed.”

“Leni, this is one of my favorite places. I’m a regular. I’d love to take the lead tonight, if you’d trust me.”

“You’re just a regular ol’
regular
, aren’t you? Here, the park, anywhere else you frequent that I should know about?”

Lane laughs, deep and addictive, toying with the buttons on his shirt with his free hand. “Let’s just say when I moved here from Tuscarora, I really wanted to take it all in. And I have. Every bit of it. I love my hometown, but New York is so diverse and rich in culture . . . I can’t seem to get enough, you know?”

Of course I know what he means. Most people feel the same. “I guess I’m just used to it. Not that I don’t love it, too, but I probably don’t take advantage of everything right under my nose because it’s just always been here.”

“Silly girl. You think too much.”

“You know me so well already.”

“And I know you’re looking at the menu and worrying about what you’ll eat. Don’t think I didn’t hear your little comment before.”

“What comment?”

“When I told you to live a little you said it was easy for me to say.”

Ah, so he did hear. “Guilty as charged.” No use trying to deny it.

Lane takes the menu from my hand and tucks it underneath his. Leaning across the red tablecloth, he caresses my hands with his thumbs, tickling my palms with the rest of his digits. “I think you’re beautiful, just the way you are. And before you go doubting what I say, you should know that I completely understand your struggle.”

My straightened posture slumps as I flip him an
oh really
pout.

“Looks are deceiving, Madeline. I’m not the person you think I am.”

Cryptic much? And there’s that phrase again. “Oh yeah, then who exactly are you, Mr. Fancy Pants? Because what I see before me is a devastatingly good-looking man with a body that makes girls weak in the knees. And, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve seen you in action—on the track. You’re a machine and it shows with every sinewy groove of your muscled form. So, how, dear Lane, can you relate to
my
struggles? Because every molecule in my body is begging me to order the nachos supreme and the double enchilada special with extra guac, but I can’t because that would ruin everything I’ve worked for up until this point. Including sitting here with you.”

I expect that to render him speechless, but instead it pushes him to continue. “Like I said,” he whispers, his face, his eyes, his lips, closer to mine than they’ve ever been, “looks can be deceiving.” His fingertip taps the tip of my nose and then he retreats. “Now, if you want those nachos and the best enchilada in town, that’s what you should have. I will never judge you, Leni. That much you can count on.”