Page 18 of Colin Gets Promoted and Dooms the World

Eleven

After another restless night, I regained consciousness on Saturday morning with one powerful, overriding thought: I have a blind date today.

While Amira worked at the dining table, I drank too much coffee and shuffled distractedly around the apartment until she started giving me the evil eye.

Then I spent more than an hour trying on almost everything in my closet, my despair deepening with every passing outfit, until I looked at my phone and realized I had less than ninety minutes until I was supposed to meet this Eric person.

Fleeing into the bathroom, I hovered in front of the mirror and started fretting about every pore, freckle, and eyelash.

Sometime later, I was tweezing several rogue nose hairs and trying not to cry when I noticed Amira leaning against the doorframe, her expression one of mingled amusement and exasperation. “I’m trying to finish this presentation,” she said, “and your yelps and sobs are distracting me.”

Glaring at her in the mirror, I gave a particularly vicious yank with the tweezers and stifled a whimper. “I am not sobbing,” I insisted when I’d regained the ability to speak.

“If you say so. Now put the tweezers down and show me what you’re going to wear.”

After rejecting the first four shirts I selected, Amira gave her grudging approval to the fifth. Then we had a long, occasionally acrimonious conversation about pants. Finally, she pronounced me ready and handed me my wallet, my keys, and my shoes after I tried to leave without all three of them.

I hesitated at the door. “Do you think he’ll think I’m weird?”

“Probably.”

“Amira.”

Smiling, she gave me a quick hug. “He’s going to love you,” she promised me. “Now get going. And remember, I want details when you get home.”

About ten seconds after I walked into the trendy little coffee shop, I realized two things: first, handlebar mustaches were still a thing in secluded enclaves of the Upper West Side; and second, Eric was way out of my league.

The mustache thing threw me, I’ll admit.

Every guy in there was rocking some seriously preposterous facial hair, and for a terrifying moment I wondered if Amira had set me up with some kind of aged hipster.

I’d only seen Eric from behind, after all.

Thankfully, however, when I spotted someone matching his description lounging in an overstuffed chair at the back of the coffee shop, he was mustache-free.

He was also a major hottie. Ankle resting casually on one knee, he wore a battered black leather jacket that practically oozed masculine confidence.

When he saw me, he jumped to his feet with a dazzling smile that sent a tingle through my whole body.

“Colin, hey,” he said as I reached him. “I recognize you from the photo Amira showed me. I’m Eric Cho.

It’s great to meet you!” Then, before I could do more than begin to stammer some inane greeting, he folded me into a strong hug.

He smelled like warm leather and, under that, hints of sandalwood and spice.

It made me want to bury my nose in the side of his neck and spend the rest of the day huffing him like glue, but that was probably more of a third-date thing, so with genuine reluctance I pulled back when he released me.

Like an idiot, I observed, “Wow. You’re a hugger.”

His smile was replaced by an expression of concern. “Was that too much?”

“No, no, no,” I insisted with an unfortunate air of desperation. “It made my day. My whole week, in fact. It was just…unexpected.” I flashed him a nervous smile and he relaxed visibly.

“Well, you’re cuter in person. I couldn’t resist.” Dimples appeared as he grinned, and I broke into a full-body sweat. “Have a seat. What can I get you?”

“A latte, thanks.” He nodded and headed for the counter while I sank into the other chair, hastily adjusting my shirt to disguise any obvious physical flaws.

I watched as he spoke with the heavily pierced barista and paid for our coffees, psyching myself up all the while, and when he returned, I burst out with “You’re cute. Close up, I mean. Too.”

Eric paused, then lowered himself into his chair with a soft laugh.

He was wearing faded jeans that fit him like a glove and a plain black T-shirt under his jacket, and it was working for me.

Boy was it ever working for me. “Thanks.” He studied me for a moment, then reached over to grip my knee.

“You seem nervous,” he observed. “Do you want to go somewhere else? The mustaches in here are a lot.”

I took a deep breath and tried to relax. “Sorry,” I said ruefully. “I’m fine. Really. I don’t go on a lot of dates. But I’m good. Better than good, in fact, if I don’t focus directly on the mustaches.”

He released my knee and leaned back in his chair. “Okay. I don’t go on a lot of dates, either, so I definitely get it. This stuff can be nerve-racking.”

Our coffees arrived, borne by a mustache of truly epic proportions, and I studied Eric surreptitiously as we both leaned forward to take our mugs from the low table in front of our chairs.

His skin was a deep bronze, and his eyes were framed by long lashes that I found utterly irresistible.

High cheekbones and a strong chin with a hint of stubble turned his features into a compelling geometry of points and angles, and his thick, dark hair was styled into a preppy side part that gave him a boyish charm.

Honestly, I could have looked at him forever.

Then he glanced sidelong at me and caught me staring, and I spluttered into my latte.

“So you don’t go on a lot of dates,” I gasped once I’d recovered, using a napkin to dab at the milk foam decorating my upper lip. “I find that hard to believe.”

One eyebrow twitched as he settled back in his chair. “Why?”

I gestured meaningfully, trying to encompass his entire being. “I mean, you’re…this.”

“What, in my thirties?” he asked with a smile.

“No! This.” I gestured more emphatically. “The dimples, the leather, those big, strong hands—” I stopped abruptly.

His smile widened. “You don’t have much of a filter, do you?”

My cheeks burned and I looked down into my latte.

Eric laughed and leaned over to touch my leg again. “I’m teasing. But it’s true, I really don’t go on a lot of dates. My job keeps me busy.”

Trying to salvage the situation, I looked back up at him. “What do you do?”

He shrugged broad shoulders under his leather jacket. “I’m a financial consultant. It’s not very interesting, to be honest. I advise people how to acquire more of other people’s money.” Giving me a crooked smile, he added, “Amira told me you work for a bank?”

“Yeah. It’s also not very interesting. Certainly not the glamorous job I’d imagined when I moved here.”

“From where?”

“Ohio.”

“Do you go back often?”

“That’s where my family is, so, no.”

His gaze was sympathetic, but all he said was “I’m sorry.” I met his eyes and then looked away, feeling unaccountably exposed. “So,” he went on, “I’m guessing you moved to the city to make a new life for yourself. How’s that working out for you?”

“It has its ups and downs. Though meeting Amira was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. I’d be lost without her.”

“How long have you known her?”

I thought about it. “Almost three years now. She was looking for a roommate, and here we are.”

Eric smiled at me. “Well, I think meeting Amira was one of the best things to happen to me, too. Because here we are.”

Blushing again, I stared down into my latte.

His flirting was definitely not subtle, and I had no idea what to do with it.

I cleared my throat a couple of times, opened my mouth to say something, and then closed it again as he leaned forward and shrugged out of his jacket.

The black tee underneath was nothing special, but it molded itself to his shoulders and chest and upper arms just enough to become extremely distracting.

“Amira told me you have all the muscles,” I said dreamily. Then my eyes widened as I realized I’d said that out loud. “Oh my god,” I whispered in dawning horror as we stared at each other.

His laugh was warm and unaffected and made me tingle all over. “There goes that filter again,” he observed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Poof.” He mimed something exploding.

“I-I’m so sorry,” I stammered. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

“Maybe the same thing that’s gotten into me,” he suggested, amusement fading as he watched me steadily.

Those tingles returned, focused now in my downstairs area, as I stared into his beautiful brown eyes. “What do you mean?” I asked breathlessly.

“I think you’re really cute. You wouldn’t know this, but my type is guys from Ohio who say whatever’s on their mind.”

Fireworks went off in my head as my heart pounded an ecstatic dance behind my ribs. “I think you’re the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen,” I told him helplessly, not so much laying my cards on the table as launching them in all directions.

His mouth curved into another smile. “I’m glad we got that out of the way. Why don’t we finish these coffees and then go for a walk?”

We wandered the tree-lined streets of the Upper West Side for the rest of the afternoon, asking each other the inane but obligatory questions that accompany the start of every new relationship.

Among other things, I learned that Eric was from San Francisco, where both sets of grandparents had settled after emigrating from South Korea, and that he hated cilantro with a deep and abiding passion.

For my part, I curated my own responses carefully, since only a sociopath would be totally honest on a first date.

I’d stumbled across a gorgeous man who thought I was cute, and if I had to tell a few white lies to keep him, so be it.

When I finally got back to the apartment, my face was sore from hours of continuous smiling.

Amira was sitting on the sofa, watching something on the ancient TV, when I closed the door behind me and leaned back against it.

A moment later the TV clicked off and she turned to stare at me with avid interest, arms crossed along the back of the sofa.

“I’ve been waiting forever,” she informed me. “How did it go?”

“I want to have his babies,” I sighed.

She clapped her hands together excitedly. “I knew it! Isn’t he great?”

“He’s amazing,” I agreed as I slowly peeled myself off the door and wandered toward her.

I felt punch-drunk, dazed. “Way out of my league, though. I mean, absurdly out of my league.” Slumping onto the sofa next to her, I stared up at the plaster ceiling and its spiderweb of thin gray cracks.

I was both elated and despondent, which was a confusing mixture of emotions—elated because it was the best date I’d ever had, and despondent because I was sure he’d wake up tomorrow and realize I was nothing special.

“Stop that,” Amira told me sternly. “Now. Sit up and tell me absolutely everything. Don’t leave out a single detail.”

As I did so, something unfamiliar and a little scary took root somewhere deep down inside me: hope.

It had been a long time since I’d last allowed myself to believe that good things were on their way.

Even now, I resisted that feeling because I didn’t want to jinx myself by embracing it.

I couldn’t help it, though. Eric made me hopeful.

Maybe everything would be okay after all.