Page 12 of 10 Things I Skate About You
ME:
TINA: Dayuuumm gurl.
EUNICE: Hawt. Are you wearing insoles in your boots? Don’t lie to me.
ME: Of course! I’m not gonna get blisters just to look hot for Adam Foley.
TINA: Queen.
EUNICE: Girl. It’s not your feet that are going to get a pounding tonight.
Tina loved “Girl. It’s not your feet that are going to get a pounding tonight.”
ME: You are both out of your minds. The only pounding that’s
Shit. The door buzzer from this historic building’s old intercom system scares the bejesus out of me, and now I have to pee again. For bladder reasons—I am not nervous. I delete my last text before saying into the intercom, “Be right down!”
“Your threats don’t scare me, Red,” says the overly confident deep voice through the intercom speaker as soon as I remove my finger from the button.
I scrunch up my face and try to think of something amazingly witty to say, but I can’t because I have to pee.
“I can hear you trying to think of a witty comeback,” he says after a moment of silence. “I’ll wait.”
Bastard.
I run to the bathroom to pee for the eighth time. I give myself another spritz of eau de parfum on either side of my neck and then decide it would be a bad idea to smell too good for this, so I dab a wet Kleenex at those overly fragrant spots. Good. Now I don’t smell like I’m trying to seduce him. I’m going to win this date, but I will not give him the satisfaction of thinking I put any effort into being hot for him.
I put on my coat. I don’t button it up so Foley can see the tight sweater dress I’m wearing underneath and understand what he’s dealing with. I need him to comprehend that I’m way out of his league and he must treat me as such. And then I slowly, sexily walk down one flight of stairs to the small lobby. Thank God I’m wearing inserts because these heels are insane.
Through the glass of the front door, I can see Foley talking.
This is amazing. He’s still talking to the intercom panel. I pull out my phone to capture this on video, but he sees me before I’ve opened the camera app.
Of course he does.
He ruins everything.
He has already ruined my appetite. He’s wearing a sharp-looking black wool coat over a tight black V-neck sweater.Black slim-fitting pants. It looks like he showered and used hair product. Who the hell does he think he is? Someone I’m supposed to want to have sex with?
I feel sick. Not nervous. Incurably disgusted by the feeling in my belly that I recognize as attraction.
When I walk out the front door, I attempt to stand still without fidgeting while Foley proceeds to do a long, slow visual sweep of me from head to toe and back up again.
He scratches his chin with his thumb, nodding and sighing. “Well played, darlin’. Well played.” He takes a half step toward me and then freezes, as if he’s trying to decide what to do. Hug me? Give me a kiss on the cheek? Bro-punch my biceps? He decides to hold out his hand. “Nice to see you,” he says.
Well, that’s kind of cute. “And you as well,” I reply, shaking his hand. His big, strong hand. He holds it for just a few seconds longer than normal, and well…shit. It’s doing things to me. Now I might actually be nervous.
He smells nice. It’s not his usual hockey-bro scent. It’s spicy and woodsy and refreshing. Like having sex in the woods on a bed of freshly fallen snow. With an asshole.
“Oh my God, it’s really happening!” I look up to find Myra and Pam, the middle-aged ladies who live across the street from me, holding up their phones, taking pictures of us, like they’re paparazzi.
I remember to smile and look like I’m stoked to be going on a date with this jerk. “It certainly is,” I say.
“Shall we?” he asks, placing his hand lightly on my back. “My truck’s right over here.”
“Fantastic,” I mutter through my forced smile. “Lead the way.” Which is what I say instead ofPlease remove your hand from my body because it’s giving me butterflies and I want to punch you.
His truck is less than half a block away. A car slows as it drives by us, and an unfamiliar male voice calls out, “Yeaahhh!! Fogueley! Woooo!”
