He’d gone way back, far enough to see her feed dotted with more events from Steele Technologies and ex-boyfriends and girls’ nights, but he hadn’t liked anything from then. He’d been playing the long game—slow and steady, get her comfortable, then boom, swoop in for a date and have her fall for him.
He’d commented on the meme she’d made of fantasy versus reality—in her case a picture of her at goat yoga juxtaposed with one of a model for the company. The half of the meme that featured Kate was an action shot, a goat perched on her head, eating her tank top, as her hands slipped out from beneath her during downward dog. Her expression, along with the goat’s, was hilarious, and so far removed from the model’s that he’d actually laughed out loud as he’d gotten off BART.
That had earned a few dirty looks in the otherwise quiet train and station, but frankly, the denizens of this city had seen far worse.
She’d liked his comments, and communications had increased.
Date night was in the near future.
At least, that was how it had gone in his head.
But it seemed to be destined to continue that way—remain in his mind and not in real life—unless he got his head out of his ass and pulled the trigger on the whole date thing. The problem was that he was a bit gun shy. Which was the point where his brain circled back to his lying ex and the reason for being gun shy in the first place. They’d originally connected on the ‘gram and that had ended . . .
Well, a heat sinking missile had nothing on him and Lori.
Kate was staring up at him with big brown eyes, her long red hair tucked behind one ear, and he was struck again by how pretty she was. And he didn’t mean that in a shallow, asshole way, like a woman’s worth was only measured in the way she looked. Jaime meant that there was something warm and comforting and just really nice inside her, and it seeped through her smile, shone through those golden-brown eyes, and it felt good to have it directed at him.
Even when she was looking accusingly over her roll at him.
So much so that he found he couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. He reached out and snagged another piece of that roll she was so protective of.
“Hey!” she gasped.
He grinned. “I think we missed a few steps.”
“Like you eating your own roll?” She shoved the basket at him.
“Like me saying, Hi, Kate, it’s nice to meet you,” he said.
She’d sucked in a breath, no doubt to berate him about the roll, but froze when he spoke. Then made a face. It was fucking cute, that little wrinkle over the bridge of her nose. A heartbeat later, it disappeared, her expression smoothing out, and she sighed. “Damn,” she said. “We did miss that part, didn’t we?”
Jaime shrugged. “Fiancés don’t normally need introductions.”
Her cheeks colored, but she kept her eyes on his. “You know, you don’t have to do this.”
Another shrug. “I know.”
“Then why are you?”
That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it?
He hesitated and then figured the best course was to just tell her the truth, albeit a non-stalking of her Instagram profile version of the truth. “You’re gorgeous, and you seem nice, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hoping to find a way to ask you on a date.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You?” A shake of her head. “Me? A date?”
Shit. He hadn’t gotten the non-creepy vibe down. Jaime cleared his throat. “Yeah, and well, my family is . . . complicated, and I figured yours must be the same if you were asking, and also that you wouldn’t have asked unless you’d gotten pretty far down your list and were getting really desperate.”
The roll fell from her hand to the plate. “Desperate?” she parroted.
“Yeah, I mean—” He shrugged. “I’m not exactly—um—” Double shit. He was fucking this up, making it weird. “It’s just we’re not exactly friends, and . . . well I—”
Cursing inwardly, knowing he wasn’t making any sense, Jaime picked up his own roll, cut it in half so he could lather it with butter. When he risked a glance at Kate, he saw she was studying him closely.
“Insecurity knows no bounds, does it?” she said, and it wasn’t pity but rather warmth in her eyes. “You were the only person I asked, Jaime. I’ve been fantasizing about you for months.” A self-deprecating shrug. “Well, about you and your adorable little animals you take care of on a daily basis.”
Her admission relaxed him, and lips curving, he admitted something he had only told a few close buddies. “I only take pictures with the cute ones. The ugly and mean ones don’t merit a selfie.”
She smiled at him, and he felt it right in the pit of his stomach. “That’s terrible.”
He pulled up the sleeve of his shirt. “The ones who scratch me don’t get photo ops either.”
“Ouch.” She reached across the table, brushed her fingers lightly over the injury. The scrapes weren’t deep, and while the injury had hurt like hell when it had happened—courtesy of claws from a mean old senior cat with a toothache—the scratches hadn’t needed much more than a good cleaning. “Why do you do it?” she asked, pulling her hand back.
“The pictures? Or the animals?” he asked.
“The pictures.” A shake of her head paired with a sheepish smile. “Both.”
“I’ll tell you all,” he said, deliberately making his tone sound like one of those late-night psychics. “But I need you to tell me something first.” He tilted his head to the side. “Well, no, two things.”
She ran her fingers through the long red strands of her hair, tucked a few pieces that had come lose back behind her ear. “What are they?”
“First, what’s your last name?”
A flash of that pretty, generous smile. “McLeod.” A beat. “Yours?”
“Huntington.”
She tilted her head to the side. “Fits.” A nod. “And the second thing?”
“Was I really the first person you asked?”
Gentle golden-brown eyes, a soft curve to her lips. “Yes, Jaime,” she murmured. “The first one. The only one.” White teeth closing over a plump red bottom lip. “I wasn’t lying before. You’re not the only one who’s done some Insta fantasizing.”
“I—”
But whatever he was going to say—and fuck if he knew what he’d been about to force out—was lost when the waitress set down a plate in front of Kate then an identical one in front of him.
“You guys have everything you need?” she asked.
“Yes, thank you,” they said at almost the same time.
The waitress left, and Jaime found himself staring at Kate, the steam from the pasta wafting up and coating his face. But he barely felt it because he couldn’t believe she’d asked him first.
They had a connection.
He’d been discounting it because . . . well, social media wasn’t real life.
He’d been discounting it because he’d thought that no way could she be into him, not like he was into her.
He’d been discounting it because . . . he’d been off his game for months.