“I identify with that narrative, for sure.” He cut a massive bite, chewed, swallowed, gestured at himself with the knife. “Growing up, I’d have made church mice look rich.”
“You wanna compare poor stories, sometime?”
He laughed. “I don’t usually, because I always win. And that just makes people feel sorry and shit and that ain’t my jam, the pity bullshit.”
“I identify with that narrative,” I said, echoing his words. “So, after a couple years with that big, soulless LA firm, Lizzy hired us to work for her—her uncle had retired and left her the brokerage, and she was starting from scratch as far as personnel went, and that included us.”
“And now you sell luxury real estate. Which means what, exactly?”
“A million is the base listing price. If the property is in a great location and sure to sell quickly, high nine hundreds, but something for that little is a rarity for Six Chicks. We live mostly in the two-to-ten range.” I gestured at him. “Now you. How’d you get into boxing?”
He finished his bite, dabbed his lips, took a sip. “Fighting was all I knew.”
I waited for more, but he didn’t seem inclined to continue. “That covers a lot of territory.”
He rolled a shoulder. “There’s a lot of territory in that question, and this is a first date.” His smile was a smolder and a friendly grin. “The heavy shit is best saved for pillow talk.”
My stomach flipped. “Pillow talk, huh?” I speared some broccoli and sugar snaps. “You don’t seem like the pillow talk type.”
“We just met, so maybe you don’t know what type I am.” He leaned toward me. “Don’t believe all the hype. Just most of it.”
“How should I know what to believe and what not to?”
“Ask me.” He was almost done with the mammoth slab of steak already. “Easiest route to the truth is to just ask.”
“Okay, I’ll ask, then.” I set my fork down and sipped wine. “Are you a sex on the first date sort of guy?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“The girl. The situation. What I’m after, what she’s after.”
“I suppose this is where you ask about the ad.”
He tilted his head sideways. “Yeah. I mean, I gotta say, we only just sat down together, so I can’t know you super great, yet, but…I’m not sure that ad jives with the vibes I’m getting from you.”
“No?”
“Not really.” His gaze sharp, heated. “You want the god’s own truth, I called based solely on the picture. The text of the ad just made me even more curious. But mainly, it was the photo.”
I swallowed. The moment I’d hung up, I’d gone onto Instagram to look, and if Zoe wasn’t my sister, I’d have killed her for using that photo.
We’d taken a vacation to Belize. Zip lines through the jungle, long hikes, snorkeling, kayaking along the shore, shopping in out-of-the-way markets. And, being our first real vacation anywhere, let alone outside the US, we’d had a bit of booze-fueled fun. Bar hopping, mainly, and then somehow making our way back to our resort in the wee hours of the morning. The photo in question had been taken by Zoe, at like four in the morning. We were both hammered, and were goofing off the balcony of our room, which was at the very top, a corner unit, facing the ocean. We’d both taken off our tops and flashed the sea, laughing. And then Zoe had called my name. I’d turned around, saw her with her phone about to snap a photo, and I’d clapped my hands over my tits, just in time, head thrown back, laughing hysterically. It was a great, candid shot of me. Blue bathing suit bottoms, my skin tan from a week in Belize, hair loose and wild and more blond than copper from the sun. My boobs were covered by my hands so it wasn’t precisely inappropriate, but you could still get a pretty good impression of what I was rocking. My smile was genuine and bright, a laugh of joy frozen in time.
I looked hot. But I never meant for anyone other than Zoe to see that. That was a private version of me. Carefree Autumn, cut loose and go wild Autumn.
Not really the version of me most people would recognize on a day-to-day basis.
“The girl in that photo isn’t really…me.” I sighed, knowing that was confusing. “What I mean is, that is me, it’s a real, candid photo of me Zoe took, but it’s almost ten years old, and it represents a different kind of person than I usually am.”
His expression wasn’t giving away much. “I really want to know the girl in the photo.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Topless?”
A lecherous grin. “Hell yeah.” The grin slid slowly into something more serious. “Carefree. A wild card.”
It came out before I could stop it. “Me too.”
He stared at me, and his eyes were deep, soulful. “Been a while since you’ve met that girl yourself, huh?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so, and I’m just now realizing it.” I sighed, waved a hand. “Like you said, that’s heavy shit. Not first date conversational material.”
“Got it. Cataloged for pillow talk.”
I laughed. “You seem awful confident we’re going to end up having pillow talk. Which is assuming we’re going to be doing what comes before pillow talk.”
“Assuming?” He bobbed his head from side to side. “I don’t know about assuming. Planning would be more accurate. Hoping, definitely.”
I couldn’t say a good part of me wasn’t on board with that plan. He was hot as sin, kind of scary in a way that I didn’t quite mind, and a far better conversationalist than I’d honestly anticipated.
“How about we play a game of one for one?” he suggested, after finishing the steak and covering the plate with his napkin.
“What’s that?”
“We each answer the same question, taking turns with who comes up with the question.”
“Okay. You can go first.”
“Anything off-limits?”
“The ad, specifically the part about getting pregnant.”
“Got it.”
“And you?” I asked. “What’s off-limits territory for you?”
He shrugged. “The heavy shit. My childhood.”
“I mean, same, so that’s fair.”
He tapped his chin, nodding when James came by with an inquiring gesture toward our empty drinks. “Okay, got one. One expensive item, or several cheap ones?”
“One expensive item,” I answered immediately. “I hate cheap stuff.”
“Same. I would rather own five really fuckin’ nice things than a thousand not as nice ones.”
“Like your car.”
He nodded. “Exactly. I don’t have a fifty-car garage full of Rovers and Lamborghinis and all that shit. I could, but I’d rather have my Venom and put the cash elsewhere.”
“How do you take your coffee?” I asked, for my question.
“Black, straight up.”
“I’m a sissy. I like a little cream. No sweetener though.”
“How about a more personal one?”
“Okay.” I thanked James as he dropped off a fresh glass of red for me and another vodka soda for Seven. “Personal, but not heavy, right?”