I sipped my beer, waiting for her reaction.
Isla tucked her hair behind her ear. She had earrings that were little sushi rolls. It was a whimsy I wouldn’t have expected from someone as no-nonsense as she was.
“That does make you suck less,” she said. “I can admit that.”
“Wow, thanks,” I said dryly. “Don’t pump up my ego.”
“Your ego is just fine,” she said, eyeing me.
I wondered if she was remembering that kiss we’d shared. Or if she was just picturing ways she could kill me and take my job.
“Why did Martin call you Chef Eight Dates?” Isla asked me, raising her eyebrows.
I grimaced. I would have preferred she had been contemplating either sex or murder over that. “That’s a stupid nickname that should have been retired years ago.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Was there a way to make this sound better than it was? Or to lie? No, because I was sure Martin would tell her the truth if she asked. That guy had it out for me for whatever reason. Back in the day, I had gotten along with him, so the animosity was new. I had to assume it had nothing to do with me but just his own frustration, but I didn’t know how tight he and Isla were in real life. If he was going to tell her, I’d like to beat him to the punch.
“When Martin and I worked in a kitchen together about six or seven years ago, I was working my ass off at the restaurant and in my free time I was dating.” That was a polite way to put it. I couldn’t exactly say I’d been fucking my way across Brooklyn.
She eyed me. “And?”
“I was, well, stacking my dates because I was working so many hours. You know how it is in the restaurant business. It’s all-consuming and hell on the personal life. But I wasn’t going to let that stop me. One week I had eight dates. The guys in the kitchen thought that was hilarious. They came up with that nickname. I can’t believe it’s followed me for this long.”
Though I had to say it probably wasn’t totally inaccurate at this point in my life either. Maybe not eight, but I wasn’t opposed to meeting up with a couple of different women in one week.
I liked women. Not one woman. But women. There was something so amazing about meeting someone for the first time and feeling that instant connection, that sexual chemistry. Meeting a stranger and having sex required no investment of time. It wasn’t hard work. I worked so hard in my career that I wanted dating to be easy, which meant I wasn’t actually dating. I was just having sex with random women who wanted the same thing. A quick, sexually satisfying night together and then move on to the next one.
Were there times when I wanted more? Of course. More often the older I got. But that was a huge commitment of time and emotion, to massage a relationship forward into something special.
“Wait, was it eight dates with the same woman or dates with eight different women?” Isla asked.
“Different women.”
The corner of her mouth turned up, like she was struggling not to laugh. “Wow. Impressive. You must have an abundance of energy and a great memory. That seems complicated as hell.”
“It was, trust me. You’re bound to fuck up when you’re talking to that many women.” I had called one brunette by the wrong name. That had been the end of that date.
“So what was the goal in doing that?” she asked. “I’m being totally serious. I don’t get it. I would never want to meet eight different guys in one week. That’s just dizzying.”
“The goal was sex,” I told her. “I would have thought that was obvious. I figured the higher the numbers, the greater the odds of success in accomplishing my goal.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re… wow.”
“What? I could have lied to you, but I don’t believe in putting a spin on it. I was in my twenties, I wanted to get laid. Is that so shocking?”
“Not really. What’s more shocking is you thought you might fail, given what I’ve seen of your ego.”
That made me nudge her leg with my knee. “Ouch. You wound me.”
She rolled her eyes. “I highly doubt it. And most people aren’t so calculating about sex.”
“It wasn’t calculating. It was called the internet. You met people, you went out. People then and now were talking to multiple people at the same time. I never pretended I wasn’t.” I was starting to think she was tweaking me just to get under my skin. “Who cares, anyway? Martin quit. That’s all that is relevant here, not some ancient nickname.”
“That is very relevant. And you’re right. I don’t care about your personal life. You could date half the women in New York and I don’t care.”
That made me eye her. Why did she sound so sharp? We had kissed like it was the cusp of the apocalypse that night of Michael’s engagement party. Was she thinking about that? Was she jealous? “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?”
Isla shook her head. “No.”
That was a relief to me but I wasn’t going to look too deeply into the why of that.
“Tell me you’ve never been on dating apps and I’ll tell you I don’t believe you.”
“Of course I have. But I wasn’t trying to get nailed by eight guys in one week.”
Damn. There was a visual. “I wouldn’t judge you if you had.” I wouldn’t. I loved sex. I’d have sex three times a day, seven days a week if I could. Four times on Sunday. “But I wasn’t trying to have sex with all eight women. I told you, I was assuming some would reject me.”
“That is very humble of you,” she said, looking amused, and like she thought I was anything but.
She wouldn’t be wrong. “It was.”
Isla’s head tilted and she raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. Her eyes were sparkling and the tip of her tongue appeared to lick the rim of that glass. “Do I dare ask how your little experiment went? How many ladies did you charm out of their panties that week?”
Damn. She was a sexy woman, even if she was annoying. Maybe more so because she liked to give it back to me.
“I don’t fuck and tell,” I told her dryly. “But let’s just say I could have used an IV of fluids by the end of the week.”
A snort escaped her mouth. “You’re a tool. I knew it in the elevator and you just confirmed it.”
“And you’re aggressive and angry for no reason whatsoever.” We had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot on the elevator and I wasn’t even sure why. I didn’t even remember what we had said to each other prior to the elevator grinding to a painful and terrifying halt.
I don’t do small spaces. I don’t like being trapped. Spelunking can suck a dick, it’s never going to happen. I won’t use the restroom on a plane, ride in a mini Cooper, or enter a small closet. The freezers in kitchens freak me the fuck out but I have a whole system of propping them open and making sure I always have my phone with me. Even Murphy beds disturb me.
It stemmed from a childhood incident involving my father’s wine cellar. I’d walked into it, entranced by all the labels on the bottles. But right as I was studying a label with an almost naked woman drawn on it, the door had clicked shut. I had gotten trapped in the closet for nearly an hour before my mother found the origin of my screams. I still can’t look at certain chardonnays without breaking into a sweat.