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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Josie

The way I remember our first official date...

I pace my apartment, barefoot on the creaky hardwood, twisting my hair into a loose bun as nervous energy thrums through me. I still can’t believe I opened up to Ken, showed him my weird side, and it didn’t scare him off.

Could I finally have found the one? The man who doesn’t expect me to fit into one certain mold, but accepts me as I am—AI obsessions and all?

I keep telling myself not to jump ahead to what’s next. Although we went to the science museum, today is our first official date as a couple. We’ve become intimately knowledgeable about each other’s bodies, but somehow, I’m all butterflies and adrenaline.

Ken is quiet confidence and smirks. Despite how quickly everything is happening, he’s managed to worm his way into my quiet little life like he belongs in it. Tugging on a floral sundress—the kind Grandma would’ve loved—I swipe on mascara, nearly poking my eye out when Mrs. Connelly bangs on her floor upstairs.

“Good luck tonight!” she hollers, her voice muffled but full of mischief. “And if he tells you he forgot his wallet, head to the bathroom and forget about him there, along with the check. That’s what I used to do.”

“I’ll remember that.” Grinning, I grab my phone and type out a text. “Ready when you are.” Immediately I start second-guessing if I should have texted him at all while waiting. Is that clingy? Does it make me sound desperate? If he’s going to be on time he’s already on his way. I shouldn’t text him while he’s driving. Don’t read the text. Don’t read the text. I would text him to tell him not to read it but...

A moment later, my phone pings. Almost there, sunshine.

I don’t hate the nickname he came up with for me. I do smile a lot. Before I can help myself, I write: Stop reading my texts while you’re driving. It’s dangerous.

His answer is almost immediate: Then stop texting me.

Okay, he has a point, but...

He continues: My phone reads out the texts to me, so no danger. We’re good.

I groan. Mine has the same option. I almost text him that, but decide it’s better if I put my phone down.

His final message: Can’t wait to see you.

My stomach does a ridiculous little flip at that, and I sigh, exasperated with myself. I am not the kind of woman who gets giddy over a man. And yet, here I am, heart racing, cheeks warm, with a ridiculous perma-smile.

Ken pulls up in his older sedan, the kind that responsible, bill-conscious men drive. I jog down the steps, catching the silhouette of him in the driver’s seat. His hair is slightly tousled, his tie loosened at the collar, like he’d rather be in anything other than a suit, but he’s also not taking it off.

“No apron tonight?” I tease, sliding into the passenger seat.

He smirks, the corner of his mouth quirking just enough to be dangerous. “Only if you’re cooking.” When he reaches over, cups my chin, and brings me in for a deep kiss, I nearly suggest we skip the date and resume being naked and tangled together.

No, this is almost important for us.

Getting out into the world.

Doing something beyond bringing each other to orgasm again and again and again... Crap, why are we going out again? I buckle my seatbelt with shaking hands.

The tires crunch over gravel as he pulls onto the road, his fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the wheel. I don’t notice at first, too caught up in the easy banter between us, but his eyes flick to the rearview mirror more often than necessary. He’s scanning—watching. I chalk it up to quirks, some deeply ingrained habit from whatever past life made him the kind of man who’s always on guard. Maybe moving around for work, always being in a new town, makes a person pay closer attention to their surroundings.

I flip down the visor and check my lipstick. “Okay, official ruling on mini-golf—fun, competitive, or an abomination?”

Ken hums as if giving the question deep philosophical thought before responding. “Competitive, because I’m going to win. Fun, because you’ll lose. Abomination, because I’m forced to participate.”

I laugh, nudging his arm. “Oh, come on. Abomination? You should reserve that word for something less tragic than losing miserably to a kindergarten teacher.”

“That’s a lot of smack talk from someone who has no idea of my skill level,” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

I give him a once over. “When was the last time you played?”

He spares me a quick glance then returns his attention to the road. “A few times back in—never.”

“Never?” My jaw drops. “Hold on. You’ve never played mini golf before and you still think you’ll kick my ass? That’s... that’s...”

“Confidence?” he asks with humor.

I chuckle. “I was going to say delusional, but sure.”

A smile cocks the corner of his mouth upward. “Don’t go being all sweet or I’ll feel bad when you’re crying after I win.”

I roll my eyes.

“How about we make a wager. One that will make your loss more palatable?”

I side eye him. “What do you have in mind?”

“Winner gets the first orgasm and choice of how it’s curated.”

Laughter bursts out of me, I blush to my toes and wave a hand. “Within reason.”

He nods in concession. “Of course.”

The mini-golf course is a tacky fever dream of peeling paint, paint-chipped windmills, and eerie gnomes with missing noses. A flickering neon sign buzzes overhead, clinging to life with sheer spite.

I grab a neon pink club, twirling it for dramatic effect. Ken, inspecting a battered blue one with the same level of scrutiny as a malfunctioning piece of tech, looks unimpressed.

“You should go first so I can study your technique,” he murmurs.

“I’ll agree to that only because you’ve never played before,” I tease and boldly slap him on the ass. He’s so reserved in public, it’s fun to mess with him. “But I’ll still win.”

He snags my hand, pulls me to him, and growls into my ear, “Plot twist, I’ve been dreaming about diving face first into your pussy all day, so even if I lose, I win.” The deep kiss that follows those words leaves me swaying back and forth with a forgotten club in my hand.

“Josie?”

“Yes?”

“There are people behind us waiting. You should probably take your shot.”

I shake my head to clear it, make the mistake of checking if Ken is watching me and swing blindly at nothing. The air between us is so charged that he doesn’t react to my miss. Like me, he’s already imagining how our date will end.

Forcing myself to concentrate I look down at the golf ball. I’ve always been good at this game. Not great, but good enough to beat a novice. I line up my shot, take a good swing at a strategic spot on the rim of the course, and promptly send the ball flying straight into a nearby pond. A duck honks in protest, flapping its wings as ripples spread across the water.

Ken snorts. “Interesting technique.”

I groan, burying my face in my hands, but when I peek through my fingers, I find him already heading to where my ball went, leaning over the water without hesitation, and using his golf club to retrieve my ball like some kind of gallant idiot.

“Does that count as one or two shots?” he asks, tossing it back to me.

I swallow and, in a tone low enough to keep our conversation between only us, I say, “I guess it depends on how you want our after-date to start.”

“Zero shots it is,” he says with a smirk.

And my heart thunders in my chest.

I take another shot, and it slows to a stop within a reasonable distance from the hole.

It’s Ken’s turn. I smile at him. He smiles back. When he places the ball down, though, his expression hardens. The way he scans the greens is eerily like I would expect a computer to. Which makes sense, I guess. He is a tech guy. His posture shifts. His shoulders go rigid, his jaw tightening as his gaze zeroes in on a young man by the snack shack in a baseball cap watching us play—watching me.

Is Ken the jealous type? He looks away without saying anything so I decide he must not be. Male attention isn’t something foreign to me. I credit most of it to my choice of attire. My mother always says that a modest dress has more universal appeal than high-cut booty shorts and mini tank tops. So, yeah, I’m used to men looking, but I don’t dress for them. I like how I feel in a dress, and I think people shouldn’t have to justify or apologize for their style preferences.

Ken moves casually, lining up his shot, and then—with an ease that is far too precise to be an accident—he swings. Hard.

CRACK.

The ball rockets straight into the guy’s shin.

The man yelps, doubling over as Ken strides toward him, hands up in a friendly apology. “Sorry, man, clumsy me.” He holds the man’s gaze for a moment.

The man bends, picks up the ball, and hands it to Ken. “No—no problem.”

As soon as the ball is back in Ken’s hand, the young man bolts. Probably fearing for his life that Ken’s lack of skill will take him out again.

I’m doubled over laughing. “You’re a menace!”

Ken winks. “If you have a problem with my skill level, take it up with my instructor. She taught me to aim for the water.”

I’m still laughing when he pulls me in for another kiss. “That poor man. Looks like you got him good.”

With an apologetic grimace, Ken says, “I did apologize.”

Thankfully, the rest of the holes were less eventful. Ken played much better than I expected him to and by the end I ask which of us won, because I’m not sure which of us did. The score sheet he hands me shows me as the clear winner, but not because it’s accurate. He had several holes in ones that he recorded multiple shots for. I narrow my eyes at him, waving the sheet in his direction, “Suspicious.”

His grin is all sex and sin. “I guess I’m just not good at keeping score.” He bends, kisses my neck, and murmurs, “Or I know what I like and that’s to hear you moan my name.”

What woman would argue with that? Not me.

I wouldn’t have minded ending the date right then, but I also want to give this part of our relationship space to grow as well.

Dinner is a classic greasy spoon diner—red vinyl booths, sticky menus, and the comforting scent of sizzling bacon. I order a strawberry milkshake, extra whipped cream, and watch in horror as Ken orders black coffee like an absolute psychopath.

“Boring,” I declare, nudging his foot under the table.

“Like I said,” he counters, taking a slow sip, “I know what I like.” But even as he jokes, his eyes keep flicking toward the door, scanning the room like he’s expecting trouble. I wonder about the places he’s been and the things he’s seen that keep him hyper aware of his surroundings. “Tell me about how you chose where you wanted to move to.”

I launch into how I went for a drive one day, a long, long drive and stopped my car when I found a town that felt “right.”

“No prior research? Just close your eyes and take a shot?”

“Or close my eyes and trust my gut. Then I applied to teach in the school district in the town I liked and—here I am.”

“Yes. Here you are.” Ken listens, quiet and attentive, his mouth twitching in amusement. “I cannot imagine making my decisions that way.”

“Oh, really? And your job? How did you find it?”

His expression tightens. “It found me.”

My mouth rounds. “I’m sorry. I assumed you like your job. You don’t?”

His smile returns. “Like any other job there are good and bad aspects of it, but I’d rather hear about you. It takes a lot of courage to just up and move to a new town by yourself.”

“No more courage than it probably takes for you to constantly be working with new people at new locations as you install computers.”

A flicker of something I can’t decipher darkens his eyes. “Thanks, but courage is no longer part of the equation for me. It’s just all part of the routine, you know?”

“Yeah,” I say with sympathy. “I get that. The first weeks of any new class is wild and in the beginning it used to intimidate me. All new names to learn. Unpredictable parental expectations. So much hope and so much fear on all sides. I’ve learned to accept that September is going to be a little messy and roll with it.”

He nods. “That’s a level of chaos acceptance I can admire.”

I smile, stirring my milkshake. “Would you ever want to do anything other than what you’re currently doing?”

His expression closes again. “I don’t ask myself questions I don’t have an immediate plan to act upon if I don’t like the answer.”

I’m not sure how to take that, but it gives me a spark of hope that if things work out between us he might consider relocating to be with me rather than asking me to go to wherever he’s based. I reach across the table, touching his hand, and he seems to flinch before his expression warms. The reaction is small, barely noticeable, but it’s there. Then, just as quickly, his grin returns and he flips his palm over to lace his fingers with mine.

“You’re trouble, Josie Rhodes,” he murmurs, voice warm but layered.

Then: a loud pop.

A car backfires outside.

Ken tenses instantly, his hand tightening on mine before relaxing. I grew up in a neighborhood where nothing bad ever happens, but he might have grown up in a city and that makes me sad for him.

I slurp my milkshake obnoxiously. “You okay?”

His laugh is quick. “Too much coffee today. I’ve got the jitters.”

The door jingles—five bikers stomp in, all leather and testosterone. One bumps into our table, spilling coffee across it.

Ken moves fast, placing a napkin over the spill and rising to his feet. The man who bumped our table sizes Ken up with a long look.

They stand there for a moment, neither moving, neither speaking. Eventually, the burly biker smiles. “Sorry, long ride today. Legs are still adapting to walking.”

I expect Ken to be defensive or intimidated by the fact that if trouble started his only backup would be me and the extra long spoon that came with my shake. One by one the bikers look Ken over.

Ken smiles. “Nothing worse. I rode an old Shovelhead from Boston to Ohio once. Didn’t do that twice, but glad I did it once.”

The biker sizes up Ken for another second, then grins, nodding in approval. “Damn. A Shovelhead? That’s old-school. Respect.”

Another man nearby snorts, adjusting his leather gloves. “I got an old FXR back home. Custom pipes. That thing roars like a damn lion.”

The older-looking one of the group adds, “I’m getting ready to buy one of those toy trailers with a camper in the front. Love the destination rides, getting too old for the miles it takes to get there.”

Ken’s smile is subtle, but it’s there. “FXRs are solid. Best handling frame Harley ever built. And there’s no shame in getting someplace in style.”

A few of the men murmur their agreement, and just like that, Ken is one of them. It’s not flashy. Not forced. It’s the kind of unspoken camaraderie only men who understand the road share.

I watch the exchange, my stomach flipping slightly. This isn’t just Ken making conversation. This is him blending in with another world—one I hadn’t realized he was a part of.

I tuck that thought away, watching as the burly biker clasps Ken’s hand. “Stay upright, brother. No matter what it takes to get you there.”

Ken returns the shake, his grip firm. “Always.”

With that the bikers wander away and I’m left wide-eyed and in awe. “That was intense. You ride motorcycles?”

Ken is smiling as he slides back into the seat across from me. “Doesn’t everyone?”

I shake my head. Not me. Not the bland men I’ve dated. Ken has the whole calm, sweet, reliable vibe going on, but it’s hot to think there’s also a little spice under that suit.

By the time we’re heading home, it’s dark. Just outside his car, I point at the sky, giddy. “Orion’s belt. Three in a row. That’s good luck.”

Ken humors me. “Sure.”

“You don’t ever look up there, realize how miniscule we are compared to the universe, and feel grateful to be a part of it all?” I ask.

His voice is deep and gravelly. “You’re a dangerous woman, Josie.”

“Me?” I turn to scan his face. “That’s something I’ve never been called.”

“Does everything make you happy?” His frown makes his question feel like a judgment.

I tense. “Of course not. I have bad days.” I swallow hard. “I get sad and lonely like everyone else. I just choose to keep going and seek out better things to focus on. Life is hard and there’s often no way to avoid that, but you can’t let that be all you are. If you’re standing in a dark room, be the light you wish was there.”

“Be my own light?”

“Choose your own narrative. Choose to find something even on a bad day that makes you happy.”

“Was today a bad day?”

I peer up at him from beneath my lashes. “You know it wasn’t.”

“I did lose at mini-golf,” he says, a fire returning to his eyes. “You know what that means?” He bends me back in a dip over his strong arm.

I shriek, laughing, but he holds me there a beat too long. “That I come first?”

He slides a hand up the back of my dress and gives my ass a territorial squeeze, “And last. And, oh so many times in the middle.”

I’m on fire for him. Melting and ready. Mouth dry with anticipation, I say, “Remember, we have to be quiet.”

“So, you don’t want me to lay you across your dining room table and feast on you?” Lifting me easily he carries me into my apartment, then lowers me to my feet before him. “I suppose we could watch a movie instead.”

I grip him by his loose tie and drag his face down toward mine, until his lips are within claiming distance and say, “Mrs. Connelly will understand—and she has her earplugs.”

We kiss in a mix of laughter and passion.

And me? I’m already moaning and writhing against Ken.

Sorry, Mrs. Connelly.