She pops the trunk when we get out to her car. It's a bit of a walk since she parked on the other end of the lot and was walking store to store. She drives a modest but clean Ford Focus, obviously purchased with her own money.
I put her bags in, and she hands me mine. “Thanks for the rescue,” she says, flashing that brilliant smile again. It's so blinding that even the sun overhead can't compete with her.
She's definitely flirting with me which makes me wonder if she's trying to up her man harem to four or if she's already thinking of dropping someone.
“I like you,” I say. Maybe it's not the best line in the world, but it's genuinely true, and I'm banking on her sensing it. “Let me take you out to dinner.”
She laughs. “He buys me dresses, opens doors, carries my bags, and wants to feed me, too. Is dragon slaying on the agenda, because I want to be sure to get a good seat.”
I take her hand in mine. It's a risk, but she's letting me this close into her space and knows I want to date her. And doesn't fortune favor the brave? “Come to dinner with me. I can't let you starve.”
She laughs at this. We both know this girl would never starve in any situation. Men would stumble over their own feet to feed her if she were in true distress. And I would no doubt be one of them.
She sighs. “In all seriousness, my dance card is pretty full right now.”
Shit. Is she really going to keep that Jack douche on the roster? He was a bit of an asshole to her earlier in the week, and I was hoping to play that to my advantage. Even if she says no, this much flirting could buy me another chance if we bump into each other in a few weeks. I can wait for Jack to do something stupid and leverage his foolishness in my favor.
“Squeeze me in,” I say. “I'm sure you've got time for one dinner. You have to eat. I'm flexible.”
“Dammit. Okay. Yes. I will go to dinner with you... wait... maybe we should exchange names. I think we're doing this a little out of order.”
I can't believe I didn't remember to introduce myself. I really am behaving like a teenager. “I'm Dayne.”
“Livia.”
“Okay, Livia. You tell me when you can fit me in among all your suitors and I'll take care of the rest.”
Livia
Mr. Black Card
Seven months ago. Last November.
I meet Dayne at the restaurant. He seems almost relieved by this, and I'm not sure what to make of that. Does he have secrets he doesn't want me to know? Is he borrowing someone else's black card? I sigh. I'll figure him out if he sticks around long enough.
It's a first date, and I don't let men pick me up on the first date for my own safety. It's true that he probably isn't a criminal. The black card joke wasn't entirely a joke. It's a very exclusive card, and while I may not know all the qualifications to have one—except for the poorly kept secret that you have to charge at least a hundred thousand dollars a year just to be considered—I'm pretty sure that a brand like that wouldn't give their card out to a man with any kind of criminal record. Him just having the card is practically a background check all on its own.
Then again, there are knockoffs out there, and it's not as though I could scrutinize the card without seeming tacky.
The restaurant he's chosen is a tiny hole in the wall Italian place. It's not fancy or expensive but it's very romantic, and the food is amazing. I'm wondering if this is a gold digger test. I don't mind it. I mean I am sort of ruthlessly maintaining a roster of men to date until someone proposes. I can hardly blame the guy for seeing how I'll react to this dining choice.
In another situation I might take it as a sign that he's stingy or cheap, but he's already proven that isn't so. He seems like a generous person, and that's what matters because no one wants to be with a man who hoards his money like a dragon guarding a golden egg—someone who keeps a running tally of “all he's done for you”.
I'm actually thrilled by the restaurant choice. It shows he's not trying to buy me like a common whore. I might actually like this guy.
Part of me hopes he does something disastrous tonight to give me an excuse not to see him again. I can't date four men. It's too many, logistically. I can't spend my whole life doing nothing but dating.
And I don't really want to drop anyone. I could probably drop Jack, but even though he can be an arrogant prick, I'm not sure if I'm ready to boot him out just yet—though he is the obvious choice for dismissal. A few months ago it would have been Soren, but he's been the perfect gentleman lately.
When I walk inside the restaurant, I spot Dayne at a small candlelit table at the back, but I allow the Maître D to walk me to the table. As we approach, Dayne stands. The Maître D pulls out my chair, and Dayne and I both sit.
I really love that. The standing thing. Part of why I meet men for the first date besides safety is to see if he'll stand when I approach. It's an old-fashioned gesture of respect, and I love chivalry. I love doors opened, checks paid, standing, that hand at the small of my back leading me into a crowded venue. All the things that so many women fight and claw to erase, I savor and enjoy. These things make me feel cherished, and since the roster started, I've dropped any man who doesn't do them. This is how I want to be treated, and a man is never going to get better than the first few dates.
“I love this restaurant,” I say.
He seems disappointed by this. “So you've been here?”
“Yes, but it was with girlfriends for lunch. Definitely not the same romantic atmosphere,” I say to reassure him that even though I know this place and love the food, he's the first man to bring me here. It really was a good restaurant choice.
When the waiter comes, I'm allowed to order first. I like that Dayne doesn't try to order for me. Telling me what I'm going to eat is a bridge too far. It comes across as controlling rather than chivalrous unless he knows me and what I order—I like it then—but definitely not on a first date. He's just ticking all the boxes. Poor Jack may be on borrowed time.
“You look beautiful,” Dayne says when we're alone again.
I smile. “Thank you.”
He's pretty beautiful himself. He has dark hair and warm chocolate brown eyes. Kind eyes. And I can tell he's got some serious muscle definition underneath the navy suit he's wearing.
There are several beats of silence, those inevitable awkward moments of oh god what are we supposed to talk about now?
“What do you do for a living?” he asks finally.
I catch him wincing at his own boring standard interview question. And I'm sure he's asking it only because I didn't ask first. I don't do the interview questions. There's plenty of time to get to know a guy. All I care about on the first date is if I'm attracted, if I have fun, and if I feel comfortable with him.
I take a sip of my water before answering. “I'm a lion tamer.”
He laughs, “Really?”
“No, I'm messing with you. Guess.”
“Hmmm, this is a lot of work for a first date. Is there a prize if I guess right?”