All Summer on a Date: Three Romantic Comedy Short Stories Page 4

  Summer's mouth fell open, just a bit. She put down her own cup. She looked back at Jeff. After such an embarrassing mess of an evening, he liked her? But she hadn't even been trying. And she'd looked terrible.

  But Jeff Tracy liked her.

  Summer bit her lip. He was … Jeff Tracy. He was with her, and … and she liked the feeling. A lot.

  “Yeah ...” she answered, “yeah.” And her heart started kicking up to the next speed as she got more and more excited by the idea. “Yes.” She looked right at him. “Yes.”

  Jeff looked back, eyes crinkling with a hint of a smile. “Summer. You're sure?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She leaned towards him then, and he met her half way.

  The second their lips touched, Summer felt it. The tingle, the rush, the sudden need for more. More of Jeff. She took him by the shoulders, sinking into him. She felt his fingers dig into her hips.

  He pulled back from the kiss, breathing hard, and looked at her. Summer could see he felt it, too. That electric intensity when they touched.

  “I'll go out with you,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “But tonight—we're staying in.”

  “Deal.”

  For Ron

  and

  Colin, one of the lucky ones

  Miss Understanding in the Ballroom with the Wrench

  “Jesse, will you get a clue!”

  Jesse looked down at her snug jeans and clingy V neck sweater. Her outfit was okay for a party, right? Was the soft, fake fur at her cuffs too much? But it made her rough hands feel so much more feminine. She rubbed her fingertips along her palms as she looked up at Celia. “Is it my shoes?” she asked. “It's my shoes, isn't it? These little booty things are the most heel-ish things I can handle.” She was defending herself the best she could in the chill of Celia's stare down.

  “Jesse!” she almost shrieked. “Forget the shoes! You drove the van?! The whole point of tonight is to HIDE what you do so that maybe, just maybe, you can get yourself a guy before you're forty!”

  “That's a decade away,” Jesse protested as she looked back at the van. After Hours Plumbing: no extra $$$ because your AFTER hours are our REGULAR hours. She turned back to Celia. “And anyway, I purposely parked three blocks away.”

  Celia started hauling her down the sidewalk. “But what if you leave the party with a guy?”

  “If we make it all the way to my van, then he'll know I'm into men at that point, don't cha think? We'll be past the point where my being a plumber will ruin my chances.”

  Celia scrunched her face into a look of doleful concern, as if Jesse had just decided to wear the reindeer sweater. “So this is just about hooking up, Jess?”

  “I'm not dumb enough to go trolling for Mr. Right at a Valentine's party.”

  “But you might meet someone, Jesse. And it could go somewhere, if you let it. The business is off and running—you have guys working for you now—you have time for a LIFE, Jess.”

  Jesse pulled away to meander along the edge of the sidewalk under a line of bare trees. “You're right,” she said. “But I'm not exactly jazzed about spending that life with a guy who expects me to quit and have babies. Or a guy who's always challenging me that he can fix a leaky faucet or change a tire faster than I can.”

  “Come on,” Celia huffed. “That was one guy who dumped you because you changed his tire on the first date. One guy.”

  “Celia,” Jesse turned to her. “It's my life, and I know how men see me. Guys are not into having a relationship with a plumber. I'll go for the hookup tonight, and leave it at that.”

  Celia gave a dramatic sigh. “Well, you at least remembered to clean under your fingernails, right?”

  Jesse leaned into her as they tripped along together. “I even smell good.”

  “Mmmm. Wisteria, right? Maybe you will actually hook up. Seriously, though, why did you bring the van? The Mini is so cute.”

  “I'm on call tonight.”

  “No!” Celia grabbed Jesse's arm, nearly wrenching it out. “Tell me you are NOT on call the night of a Valentine's party!”

  Jesse pulled away and rotated her shoulder. “I'm third on call. The guys actually begged me to make them work tonight. Chances are that I won't have to work. But hey, holidays are my bread and butter, so ...”

  “So you're going to die a virgin.”

  “I'm not a virgin.”

  “Whatever.”

  Peter looked out the windshield as Marcia backed in to parallel park. “We're here?” he asked, checking out the plumber's van in front of them as Marcia kissed its bumper. “We could have walked this. My apartment's only a few blocks away.”

  “Yeah, but my house is across town.”

  “You could have parked at my place. I have an extra spot.”

  “Ha! In that maze?” Marcia's long curls flew across her face and back again as she edged the car in. “And don't worry. We've still got blocks to go, so those precious feet of yours are going to get to do some walking after all.”

  “Precious, my ass. I'm going to this party to be nice and normal, that's all. No drama.” Peter stepped out of the car and stretched his long legs.

  Marcia bleeped the car locked as she shook out her gypsy skirt. “Okay,” she agreed. “I decided we'll tell everyone you're an actor.”

  “What?! That's not normal!”

  “It is in L.A., kiddo. And at a party on Valentine's Day, there'll be so many actors there that you'll be downright boring.”

  “But I can't act.”

  “You've been working in theatre for the past fifteen years. Just tell everyone about your starring role in Romeo and Juliet.”

  “What if they ask me to quote lines?”

  “Everyone can quote from Romeo and Juliet.”

  Peter tried to remember Mr. Pryor's English class in ninth grade. “'Something something the east, Juliet is the sun.'”

  “Oh, for Pete's sake.” Marcia set off down the street, shaking her head.

  “Hey,” Peter said, catching up in a few strides, “why do you even know actors, anyway? Won't there be any other doctors here? Or cute nurses? A cute nurse would be pretty normal.”

  “You know I work in a mental hospital, right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “And it's not like I leave work just so I can hang out with more doctors.”

  “You don't like other doctors?”

  Marcia turned to look at him. “Aren't we going to this thing because you don't like the people you work with and you want to meet someone totally different?”

  “It's not the same thing,” he protested, starting to walk on even though he didn't know where the party was. “Everyone I work with is batshit crazy.”

  Marcia laughed and followed him. “All except you, though, right?”

  “I'm not vicious like them. Or backstabbing. Or front-stabbing, even.”

  Marcia linked her arm with his. “No, you were always the quiet, mopey type, even when we were kids.”

  He laughed. “Do me a favor and tell people I'm 'brooding.' That sounds much sexier.”

  Marcia looked up at him. Tall, well-muscled, and troubled. Yeah, normal girls would go for him in a heartbeat.

  Jesse chewed on her cherry stem as she glanced around the party. She hadn't even liked parties in college. Too loud. Too smokey. Too drunk. This couldn't be the only way to meet men. She turned to go and smacked right into Celia.

  “No, you don't, Jess.” Celia pressed a tall pink drink into her hand. “This was your idea, remember.”

  “When I asked if you wanted to hang out on Valentine's Day, I meant us—friends—hanging out.”

  “To do what? Watch Meg Ryan movies? Are you sure you're not a virgin?”

  Jesse shot her a venomous glance. Of course she wasn't a virgin. Though the clammy truth sneaking under her skin was that she sort of was a virgin—in L.A., at least. She'd been in town for just over four years, and she had yet to score in the City of Angels. Building her business had taken all of her time,
and you didn't really meet any do-able prospects during a septic system overhaul.

  “And get that out of your mouth,” Celia snapped, yanking the cherry stem from between Jesse's teeth.

  “Hey.” Jesse rubbed her lip as she looked down at her drink. “What is this, anyway?”

  “Dunno, “ Celia said, standing on tiptoe to scan the room. “Some skinhead Cupid bartender made it.”

  “What? Skinhead Cupid?”

  “Gotta go. Hottie at three o'clock. Rock on, Jess.”

  Jesse swung her head around to follow Celia's progress, but the crowd quickly swallowed her up.

  Just then someone knocked into Jesse's back shoulder, sloshing her drink everywhere, including on her nice fake fur cuffs. She spun around to tell off the cretin who'd slammed into her, only to find herself staring into a man's impossibly broad chest. She stepped back and looked up to see a towering bald giant dressed in a caramel suede vest and pair of Cupid wings. He looked right at her and Jesse couldn't think of a thing to say. He smiled and shrugged, making her feel all warm and tingly, as if she'd been doused with a bucket of bubble bath. He backed away and melted into the throng, leaving Jesse a bit dizzy as she turned back around. “Oh, my God!”

  A man stood in front of her, wiping at the big wet splotch on the front of his shirt.

  His head jerked up at her voice, and Jesse found herself looking into the deepest, kindest pair of brown eyes she'd ever seen. “Uh ...” she stammered. “Sorry. So sorry.”

  He smiled at her. “No, it's ...ah ...”

  “Your shirt. Sorry about your shirt. That guy … Cupid … I didn't know this was a costume party.”

  The man stood up straight and stopped messing with his shirt, letting his hands fall to his sides and the napkin drop to the floor. “No. You're … I didn't think it would be like this either.”

  Peter stood there, looking at her, this woman who'd poured her drink down his shirt, and all he could think was Juliet is the sun. Her face was just so clear and open and frank and bright. “I ...” he began again.

  “Your shirt,” she said, looking mournfully at the center of his chest.

  “It's my shirt,” he confirmed.

  She looked up at him then. He looked back at her. “And I'm Peter,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “Peter Tavock.”

  She beamed at him as she took his hand in a powerful grip. “I'm Jesse. Jesse Rufino.”

  “You're Italian, then,” he said, stupidly delighted. Italian, like Juliet.

  Jesse nodded. “And you're … Russian?”

  He shook his head. “Polish,” he corrected. “Name mercilessly shortened in the 1930's.” Now, why the hell had he said that? Could he possibly sound more mundane? He was going to drive her away with the sheer, idiotic boredom of his presence. “I like your furry cuffs,” he said suddenly, bursting out with the first thing he could think of.

  Just then a bobbing head of dark curls brushed past him. “Hi!” Marcia said, barging in and shaking Jesse's hand. “I'm Dr. Marcia Tavock, Peter's sister.”

  “Oh—” Jesse took her hand back and glanced at Peter. “Hi. I'm Jesse.”

  “I'm just going to borrow my brother and clean him up. I'll have him back to you in a jiff.”

  And with that, she hauled off Peter through the crowd.

  As they stumbled into a mostly empty kitchen, Peter turned on her. “What are you doing? I like her!”

  “Really? I couldn't tell from the way you were melting at her feet.”

  “Then why—”

  “'I like your furry cuffs'?”

  Peter blushed to the roots of his hair. “Um, she has me a little tongue-tied. Now, let me go before she goes off with some other guy.”

  “From the way she was looking at you, I don't think she's going anywhere.”

  Peter's eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Relax, Sport. She's just a girl.”

  Peter pulled back. “What's that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, she's not the answer.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You're at a crossroads. And I brought you here tonight hoping you could relax. But now that I see you actually interested in a girl, well, I just don't want you pulling her into your mess. You have to figure it out for yourself.”

  “Marcia! I meet a cute girl at a party, and you pull me aside for a therapy session? Are you serious?!”

  Marcia winced under his thunderous glare. “Bad timing?”

  “Ya think?” He turned on point and stormed out the kitchen door.

  Marcia stood there, wondering whether dealing with patients under lock and key was warping her as a human being.

  Just then the kitchen door swung open and Peter came back in. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia,” he said on a sigh.

  And with that, he was gone again.

  Jesse stood in the middle of the party, clutching her mostly empty glass.

  “Jesse,” Celia scolded, sidling up alongside her. “Why are you just standing here?”

  Jesse took a deep breath. “I don't know. I met this guy with these brown eyes. But then his sister showed up and whisked him away. Just like that. And he let her. She just swooped in like a winged monkey and took him.” Jesse arched her neck and looked heavenward. “Rrrrr! Screw it. Who goes to a party with his sister anyway? I'm outta here.” She spun toward the door.

  And found herself face to face with Peter.

  Her mouth fell open. “Uh ...”

  “Gotta go.” Celia took off into the crowd.

  Jesse barely flicked her a glance before looking back at Peter.

  “I'm sorry, Jesse,” he said before she could say anything else. He smiled. “But I'm glad you waited.”

  “Uh ...”

  “I hang out with my sister because I just moved here. I don't really know anybody, so ...”

  Jesse shut her mouth and tried again. “I'm so sorry. Really. It's just that you look like such a nice guy, and then she just took you away.”

  “You think I look like a nice guy?”

  “Oh, God!” Jesse's hand flew to her mouth. “I wasn't supposed to say that, was I? Guys never want to be called 'nice.' Sorry!”

  Peter laughed. He thought about all the things he'd been called over the past few months.“No,” he assured her. “Nice' is good.”

  “Some people think 'nice' is boring,” Jesse mused, then clapped her hand in front of her mouth again.

  But Peter just laughed again. “You saying I'm boring?”

  Jesse dropped her hand and raised an eyebrow. “You tell me,” she said. “Are you a boring guy?”

  Peter looked down, then smiled as he nodded. “Pretty sure, actually. I mean, I work a hell of a lot and have no social life to speak of.”

  “Well, then.” Jesse set her drink on a windowsill.

  Peter's heart sank. Why had he gone and blurted out the truth? Why hadn't he just said he was getting a pilot's license on the weekends?

  “I'm surprised you didn't recognize me,” Jesse continued, looking up at him. “Seeing as how we're two peas in a pod, and all.”

  Had he heard her right? Was she confessing to being just the same kind of un-datable freak as he was? He moved to lean against the wall next to her. “And how do you like it, Jesse? Life here in the pod?”

  She considered. “You know what? Some people think it's weird that I'm a pod person. They complain about how hard I work. But a woman in the pod is a credit to Rosie the Riveter and Gloria Vanderbilt and … and … and Maude.”

  “And Rhoda and Alice and Sally Ride,” he added.

  “Yeah.” She smiled up at him.

  “So, Jesse Rufino, what is it that you do that you love so much?”

  But Jesse shook her head. “Uh-uh. As much as I love my job, tonight is a rare night off for me. So, let's not talk about work anymore. What do you say?”

  Peter felt all the tension inside him rinse away. “Agreed,” he said. “A ban on shoptalk.”

 
Just then, a pair of Cupid wings passed by the open window, and a breeze drifted across them. “Mmmm,” Jesse said. “It's a lot nicer outside than in here. Want to go for a walk?”

  Peter nodded. “Yeah.”

  The sparkling Los Angeles night was brisk—well, kind of cold, actually, but Jesse didn't mind. She was basking in the toasty glow of walking with Peter. They weren't even saying anything, but Jesse felt giddy and … divine. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she'd spent time with a man simply because she enjoyed his company. Heaven.

  Jesse was watching her shoes stepping in stride with Peter when he stopped. She looked up, and her heart SLAMMED INTO HER RIBCAGE. Peter had stopped right next to her van. HER VAN!

  “Why are we stopping?” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded high-pitched with hysteria. “I mean, uh,” she consciously lowered her voice, “aren't you enjoying the walk?” Damn! Now she sounded like she was trying to imitate Robert Wagner. “We should keep going.” She took him by the sleeve and started tugging.

  “Wait,” he said on a laugh. “This is my car,” he explained. “Well, my sister's car. And I don't have the keys. But I just thought … where's your car? Maybe we could go somewhere, like for coffee or pie or something.”

  “No!” Jesse all but shrieked as her eyes bugged out and her hand slipped off his arm.

  “Okay,” he said. “It doesn't have to be pie. It can be a salad or—”

  “No! I mean, uh, it's not the pie, but, uh, my car is a total mess.”

  Peter shrugged and smiled. “I don't mind.”

  “But—but—but I just had my dog in there.”

  “I like dogs.”

  “He threw up in my car!”

  Peter pulled back, eyebrows raised.

  “All over the dashboard,” Jesse went on to explain. “And the front passenger seat. Sorry.”

  “No, no,” Peter said. “That's … uh ...”

  Jesse wanted to kick herself. What kind of woman would drive around with dog puke in her car?

  “Sorry,” she said quickly. “I just made that up. My dog didn't … uh, I mean … uh ...”