“Is ‘oh’ code for yes?”

“Um . . .” He seems genuine. It was easier to shrug off his advances when I believed he was a player. If he turns out to be a liar, I’ll be devastated.

“If you’re going to say no, I could ask your boobs. You’ve already said I can take them on a date, and I did get them a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate. They’d probably be happy to go out with me.” His smile is impish.

It’s hard not to return it. His sense of humor is as whacked out and as inappropriate as mine.

“They probably would.” My nipples tighten at their mention. Stupid boobs.

“Please say yes,” Alex whispers.

“My boobs are willing; the rest of me will come along. I’m not one hundred percent sold on you like they seem to be.”

I can’t believe I’m acting like my boobs have a say in the matter.

“That’s fair.” Alex’s eyes dip down. “I’m glad your boobs are sold on me. I’m a fan.”

I roll my eyes. “I guess the feeling’s mutual.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow?”

“I leave Wednesday for almost two weeks. I’d like to see you before I go if you’re available. We could have dinner? I understand if it’s too short notice.”

“I can check my calendar.” I have no plans for tomorrow night. Even if I did, I’d cancel them. Alex sips his hot chocolate while I pretend to check my schedule. “It looks like I’m free.”

“Great.” He reclines in his chair, smiling widely.

This isn’t what I was expecting at all. I assumed Alex would feed me a load of crap, and I’d be justified in my disdain for hockey players. Instead I’m mentally reviewing my underwear options and worrying whether I have anything date appropriate. A trip to Victoria’s Secret is essential. My boobs want to look their best. So does the rest of me.

VIOLET

By the time we leave the café, it’s almost eight. Alex insists on walking me to my car. I’m not opposed. While downtown bustles with business types during the day, it’s a prime club crawl location at night. The University of Illinois is only a few blocks away, making the poorly lit parking lot a perfect meeting spot for delinquent kids. Sometimes I find half-smoked roaches and empty Colt 45s on Monday mornings.

Alex keeps his hand on my waist as we walk to my car. The contact makes me aware of how much I’d like him to touch other parts. I have to remind myself it’s not going to happen tonight. Tomorrow is a different story altogether.

My 4Runner is parked in one of the few well-lit areas in the middle of the lot.

“Is this thing safe?” Alex asks as I shove the key in the lock. It takes a few jiggles before it turns. The automatic locks stopped working six months ago.

“It passed the safety inspection last year.”

He pokes at a rusty spot on the side panel. “I can’t imagine how.”

“Stop! You’ll make it worse!” I put my hand over the rusty spot. “I have it serviced regularly.”

“By who?”

“Sidney has a guy. It’s driveable.” This is only mostly true. There’s a clunking sound my mechanic can’t seem to identify and some issues with the rear axle. I’m not allowed to take it on bumpy roads or the freeway.

Alex frowns as he continues to inspect my vehicle. “You’re sure he’s reliable?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

My 4Runner has been on its last leg for a good year. I bought it with my own money, and I’m sentimental, so I won’t get rid of it. I refuse Sidney’s repeated offer to buy me a new car. It’s too extravagant an expense.

“At least it’s big,” Alex mutters.

“Bigger isn’t always better.” The tank on this beast is bottomless.

“Oh?”

It takes a few seconds to clue in to the double meaning. Maybe he thinks I’m insulting his manhood. I consider his manhood—and how much I hate the word manhood. In Alex’s case, bigger is awesome. The only drawback is how hard it is to walk the day after said manhood has plundered my womanhood. I need to cut it with the historical romance references.

“In some cases bigger, isn’t better. Like with this.” I pat my SUV. “It’s a real gas guzzler. I try to limit my driving to work and the grocery store so I don’t ruin the environment. I’d invest in a hybrid if they weren’t so ugly and expensive.”

Alex is wearing a sexy-as-hell amused smile while he listens to me ramble. One hand is braced on the vehicle, and he’s leaning in. If he moves an inch or two closer, it might feel like he’s planning to kiss me. I want him to kiss me. My brain has stopped working, and I continue with the nonsensical babble.

“For you”—I point in the general direction of his groin—“bigger is sort of better. I mean, huge is nice, too. You’ve got huge covered well. I like it.” I bite my lip to stop the words.

“So what you’re saying is bigger is only sort of better in my case?”

“What? No, no. It’s fantastic, hard on the . . .” I gesture to my crotch. Dammit. I’m making it sound bad. I don’t want to offend him. “I’m sure I could get used to it after a while . . . with some practice.”

“I’m good at practice.”

He moves closer. He smells like chocolate and sandalwood or whatever he washes his hot, firm body with. He’s wearing one of those beanie things, like a ski cap, with a band logo on it. The Tragically Hip, maybe. His hair has grown in the past month; it curls around the edges. I want to press my lips against his and finger those errant strands. Him. Me. I want.