Virtually Perfect

Reaching for the flowers he had brought with him, he shook off the agitation of the drive. His jacket was covered with salt and sludge, so he left it in the back seat and grabbed a fleece he had lying there.

The night was clear and cold, and his heart was thudding deeply in his chest as he approached the restaurant. This was it. In another minute he would be looking at, handing these flowers to—touching—the woman who had been the focus of his dreams, waking and sleeping, for the last month. He steadied his breathing and walked through the restaurant door.

He spotted her immediately, from the back. Seated at the bar, she was turned about three-quarters away from him, blond hair flowing down her back, a pink rosebud tucked sweetly behind her ear. Not white for purity, not red for passion, but something in between.

Jack watched quietly as she leaned forward and laughed quietly with the bartender, who was pouring her another drink. The soft line of her jaw entranced him, and he stared, losing all sense of time or place. He frowned for a moment, feeling a prick of recognition, but ignored it.

He forgot that he was cold, hungry and tired as he took in the graceful curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulder and the way her hair tumbled down over the womanly shape of her back. He flexed his fingers, imagining wrapping his fingers into it, getting tangled in all those silken strands.

His mouth went dry as he followed the length of her body. She sat saucily on the stool, legs crossed at her very beautiful knees, the black leather boots offering only a hint of leg, making him lick his lips. Thank you, heaven.

The bartender walked away, leaving her with her drink, and he saw her look at her watch, and observed how her shoulders lifted and fell slightly in what must have been a sigh. Taking a deep breath for courage, he stepped forward, quickly covering the space between them.

He stopped and caught his breath when she suddenly spun around and slipped down off the stool, face-to-face with him. He stood stock-still, disbelieving, his brain and body frozen in shock. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed like seasons passed. She looked at him squarely.

“Oh. Jack. Hi.”

She didn’t appear shocked to see him, though she was less than thrilled, obviously. He realized she had no idea that he was there to see her. He didn’t—couldn’t—say anything. He watched her lean over, grab her purse, then her jacket. She looked miserable. She thought she’d been stood up.

Conflict raged as he realized his out—he could let her think that her date was not coming, and just walk away. But when he saw the disappointment in her face, he couldn’t do it. Not that the alternative was going to get a much better response.

“Um…yeah…” He had never been so truly lost for what to say. It was a cruel trick of the universe that the woman he had been dreaming about, sharing such intimacies with—hell, getting off on the phone with—was her.

His brain still refused to process this new situation, but as she walked past him toward the door, he spontaneously reached out and grabbed her arm. She turned and looked at him, confused, and maybe a little peeved.

“Excuse me?”

There was only one way to deal with this, he figured. Jump right in. “I’m sorry I’m late.” His slightly strangled voice did not sound like his own. He tried to smile, but it didn’t quite work.

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind and removed his hand from her sleeve.

“Jack, I have no idea what you are talking about, but it looks like you have a date.” She tilted her head at the flowers. “If you’re late, you’d better get moving. Good night.” She turned toward the door again.

He sighed, and took the leap. “You’re right. I do have a date. With you. Nilla.”

She stopped and turned slowly to face him. He watched disbelief, and then shock, cross her features. She had such an expressive face. Not saying anything, she just stared at him, her cheeks reddening. She dropped her purse, and looked as if she wanted to slap him.

“You! Is this some kind of joke?”

“No. No joke. I’m Rider, and you, apparently, are Nilla.”

She just stared, and Jack took her elbow, steering her to the bar again, to sit.

“Let go of me!”

“Fine. This is not exactly what I expected, either, believe me.”

She was still too horrified to really hear him or process what he was saying to her—this was the man she’d had been sharing her intimate fantasies with? Jack, the guy from her office, was the mystery man she had phone sex with?

Her heart sank into a pit of humiliation. She had helped him have an orgasm over the phone the same day they had exchanged swipes just a few hours earlier in her office! How could this be? He must have known. He must have set her up somehow; this must be an office prank. Her fingers tightened painfully on the edge of the bar.

“Can I get you another drink? I could sure use one.” His voice was resigned.

“I don’t think so.”

“Have it your way.”

He signaled the bartender and ordered a brandy, and they both sat there silently, looking dumbfounded. When she spoke, her voice was accusing.

“Why aren’t you wearing the clothes you said you would? The Red Sox hat, leather jacket? Were you trying to trick me?”

“Hardly. I had some trouble on the road, lost my hat and ruined my jacket. What do you take me for, anyway?”

“I don’t know what to think about this. I mean you…we…”

He watched the emotions play over her face, and felt like a cad, even though he had not done anything wrong. He sipped his brandy, trying to think of what to do next.

“We have reservations. What do you say we make peace, laugh it off, and go have dinner? We could at least talk about it. You have to admit, this is one hell of a coincidence.”

“I’m going home.” She got up, walked toward the door then outside. How could she stay? How could she let him see how devastated she was? She would not—not—let a single tear escape, though it seemed as if several thousand of them were threatening.