Back in the Burbs by Tracy Wolff
Chapter Seventeen
I go back in the house and grab my purse before locking up and hopping into Mikey’s truck. If I finally glance at Nick’s house and note his car is still in the driveway, well, it isn’t because I care one way or the other.
Guilt-ridden that I was checking on another man while in Mikey’s truck, I give him the brightest smile I can muster and compliment his ride. When his eyes twinkle, though, I realize I may have accidentally flashed him my fuck-I-love-cheesecake smile reserved only for those holy days I indulge in that wicked dessert, and I dial the wattage back.
It takes less than ten minutes to reach the diner and park, and soon we’re out of the truck and heading into the restaurant. As I walk through the door, a powerful wave of contentment hits me square in the stomach. There are cracked red vinyl booths, a jukebox playing Motown music, and an oversize pie display case on the wide countertop. I love it all.
Mikey waves to a waitress by the cook station and leads me to a booth in the front vestibule. His face lights up as he slides into the booth opposite me. And if I was still wondering if this is a date-date, he leans back as if to take me in and murmurs, “You look beautiful.”
Heat warms my cheeks. “You look pretty good yourself.”
It’s true. Plus, it isn’t like I can just leave his compliment hanging in the air between us.
“Well, thank you.” He grins, his brown eyes gleaming with appreciation. It’s been a long time since a man looked at me like I was his dessert, and it feels good. Good enough to flash him my cheesecake smile again, in fact, and his grin widens.
I open the giant menu and focus on the rows and rows and rows of options.
“Anything look good?” Mikey asks.
I nod and point to a giant picture of a cookie milkshake. “How about you?”
He raises one brow. “Good idea, but I think I’m going to get a little wild and go for the grasshopper milkshake. It’s been years since I’ve had it, but it used to be one of my favorites here.”
“You’re a big mint chocolate chip fan, huh?”
“To be fair, who isn’t?” He shoots me a mock-censorious glare. “If you don’t like mint chocolate chip, you should probably tell me now so we can call this irreconcilable differences and leave before any ice cream gets harmed in the process.”
I laugh, because it’s hard not to. He’s goofy, sure, but also super charming in that funny-friend-of-your-brother’s way. In other words, not my kind of charming. At least until the exorcism is complete.
“I have nothing against mint chocolate chip, I swear,” I say with a flirty little flip of my hair. “We’re in the clear.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, and the look in his eyes becomes more intense than flirtatious.
It makes my heart catch in my throat—though not in any of the good ways you’d expect. More in a nervous, I’m-not-sure-I-want-to-do-this way. Or more, in a very-nervous, I’m-pretty-sure-I-don’t-want-to-do-this way.
“You know I’m not divorced yet, right?” The words come out of their own volition, but when Mikey sits back, the intensity fading from his eyes, I can’t say that I’m sorry.
“I figured,” he says after several long, quiet seconds. “But divorces take time, and he’s obviously not in the picture anymore.”
“He’s not.” I exhale a deep breath. “But it’s been a pretty brutal divorce—don’t worry; I’m not going to bore you with any of the gory details—but I just felt like I should warn you.”
He tilts his head like a sweet, adorable Lab puppy. “Warn me that you’re not divorced yet?”
“Warn you that I’m not looking for anything yet—or more likely, ever. I’m pretty sure that part of me died somewhere between filing for divorce and negotiating for who gets to keep what.” Or in my case, who gets to keep everything and who gets to keep nothing.
Not that I’m going to let that stand anymore—I am hiring a divorce attorney even if I need to sell all my plasma, and most of my blood, to do it. God knows, with the rates divorce attorneys charge per hour, one meeting would cost me nearly every drop of red blood cells I have.
“Yeah, well, you have to start somewhere, right?” This time, he is a lot less subtle when he reaches out and takes my hand in his, turning it palm-up so he can run a finger over the inside of my wrist.
I shudder involuntarily, and he winks at me. “See, that part of you is definitely not dead.”
I don’t have the heart to tell him it wasn’t a good shudder or that I reacted that way because it’s the same spot Karl used to touch me to signal he was horny. Some things dates don’t need to know, especially not earnest dates who are doing their best to be nice.
So instead, I just shrug and murmur, “Maybe not.”
The waitress comes to take our order before he can say any more. I order a milkshake and a cheeseburger. Mikey one-ups me by getting an order of fries to go with his burger and shake.
After the waitress leaves, he leans back on his side of the booth and teases, “You know, you’re not the only one who had a history before we met.”
“Oh yeah?” I lean forward, propping my forearms on the table. “Do tell.”
“I’ve actually taken two women here for a first date. The first was Mary Katherine. She was my seventh-grade crush, and I was completely gaga over her curly blond hair and bright green eyes.”
“I bet. Mary Katherine sounds like a looker.”
“Oh, she was,” he says, voice rich with amusement. “Absolutely.”
“So how’d it go?”
He shakes his head, a mock frown on his face. “The first time, I crashed and burned. She broke my thirteen-year-old heart into a million pieces.”
“That sucks,” I say, trying not to giggle. “And the second time?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow.” He gives me a cocky grin. “But it’s looking good so far.”
And that’s it. I crack up. I just absolutely, positively crack up. Because— “Did you just Top Gun me?”
His grin grows wider, and the gleam in his eyes gets a little bit more wicked. “Maybe I did. Did it work?”
“I don’t know.” I sit back as the waitress delivers our food. “But so far, it’s not looking terrible.”
“I’ll take that,” he says, dipping one of his fries in ketchup.
I pick up my burger and dig in. Mikey is way too nice of a guy for his own good. Which is probably why I say yes to a second date—dinner this time—when he drives me back to my house and insists on walking me to my garage door.
This is the right move. I don’t want to like assholes anymore. Been there, done that, and do not want the T-shirt or anything else, for that matter. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that not-an-asshole Mikey is hot and built and younger than me.
Even if he does make me crack up all over again when he climbs back in his truck after dropping me off, then starts singing “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feelin’” to me through his open window—except he changes the words so that it’s more like, “You’ve Found that Lovin’ Feelin’.”
A couple of guys walking their dogs nearby join in—just like in Top Gun—and I am blushing and grinning like my teenage self by the time I finally walk inside.
My vaginal exorcism is off to an amazing start.