Page 12 of Aperture

Wyatt spots me a moment later and gets out, then walks up to my car door and opens it as soon as I unlock it. I just saw him yesterday, but it still surprises me how attractive he is. He takes my breath away as soon as I look into his blue eyes.

After placing a peck on my cheek, he says, “You are beautiful.” I immediately notice his choice of words. He doesn’t say “you look beautiful.” He says, “you are beautiful.” His scent envelops me as he leans in. He smells heavenly, like body soap and rich, deep cologne. I could stand here and smell him for hours, but he gestures for us to head inside.

When we get into the restaurant, he places his hand on the small of my back to lead me to the table. It’s warm and protective, and I love it.

I was at this same restaurant with the fart guy, and I actually shudder when we pass the table he and I sat at. Thankfully the hostess seats us in a comfortable booth.

“Everything OK?” Wyatt asks.

“Yes,” I tell him. “This restaurant just brings back bad memories.”

“We could’ve gone somewhere else,” he says with an alarmed tone.

I laugh. “No, it’s fine. I just had a bad online date here not too long ago.”

The server comes by and asks for our drink order.

“I think I’ll just have a glass of red wine,” I tell her. Wyatt orders us a bottle of wine while we look over the menu. I’ll eat anything except for the chicken alfredo fettuccine. I swear that date gave me PTSD. We order our meals, chicken parmesan for Wyatt and shrimp scampi for me.

“So, spill it,” he says.

“Do you really want to hear this story?” I ask.

“More than anything,” he replies. So, I tell him the entire story as he sits there, stunned. And then, he doubles over with laughter.

“I have had some bad dates,” he says, still chuckling, “but not so bad that I had to leave in the middle of dinner.”

“It was so bad. We sat at that table over there,” I point toward the sinister spot.

“Maybe we should burn some sage or throw holy water on it,” he suggests, taking a sip of his wine.

“Probably not the worst idea,” I agree.

As I’m sitting, staring at his tongue peeking out to lick a drop of wine off his bottom lip, it suddenly hits me that I’ve spent most of the date talking about myself.

“I just realized I don’t know what you do for a living,” I say. The easy going demeanor that he had assumed up until now vanishes, and I can see him revert back to his guarded intensity right before my eyes.

“I’m a detective,” he answers. A frown forms as he says it and his body appears to tense up. I can see his shoulders lifting to his ears.

“And that makes you angry and tense?” I joke sarcastically.

“No,” he chuckles, and I can see him relax a bit. “Some people just don’t like what I do for a living. I’m always hesitant to tell women what I do since it might scare them off.”

“Not much scares me,” I say casually as I sip my wine.

“Really?” he questions, as he leans forward. “I’m sure I could tell you some things that might scare you.” He looks me dead in the eye like he’s testing me.

“Maybe you could, but that’s probably not first date conversation,” I counter.

He sits back in his seat. “You’re right. It’s not.”

“So, what is Millie short for?”

“Milicent,” I offer shyly. I’ve always liked my name, but let’s be honest—it’s the name of an 89-year-old woman.

Wyatt smiles warmly. “I love that. What is your middle name?”

“I don’t wanna say,” I laugh, as I hide my face with my complimentary, warm sourdough roll.