blindfolded and on my hands!”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, but his blush is as red as the cherries floating on top of our drinks. Make that, our non-alcoholic drinks.
“Be honest,” I say, reaching across the table to grip his forearm. “Did you or did you not purposefully try to get me un-drunk?”
“Well,” he laughs, and this time I don’t rush to slide my hand from his arm. “When you put it that way…”
“But why?” I ask, still clinging to his arm. In fact, I let it linger there, purposefully, enjoying the feel of his warm skin beneath my light touch. It’s been so long since I’ve touched anyone or, well… anyone’s touched me. It feels almost… decadent.
He shrugs, looking all of fifteen – and adorably so. “I didn’t… I didn’t want you to like me just because you were buzzed, you know?”
As if on cue Hardy, the bartender, appears with our small plates: pate and brie, sliced pickles and honeycomb, sesame crackers and grapes. I pull my hand away and the two make small talk for a moment while I nibble on a grape and wash it down with a cracker, the first sustenance I’ve had in what feels like forever.
Suddenly famished, we demolish the snacks in no time, washing them down with the grown up equivalent of a kiddy cocktail. The plates empty and our bellies full, Ty winks and says, “Where to next?”
“Just two more stops,” I sigh, tapping the well worn guide map, close to falling apart by now and memorized long ago.
I look over at him, smiling weakly. Now that we’ve eaten, I’m not sure I want to start pub crawling all over again.
“You don’t sound so enthused.”
I shrug. “Are you?”
He shrugs back. Then, gently, he drags the guide map from my hand and, tapping the next stop, flashes that youthful smile. “Not particularly, but I think once we get moving, we’ll feel better. After all, it’s only two more stops. We can’t quit yet.”
“We can’t?” I whine.
He pockets the guide map, as if making an executive decision and taking over for the rest of the night. “Nope,” he insists. “After all, someone from your office has to finish the crawl, right? I mean, look at you – you’re the last woman standing!”
I chuckle. “You’re right,” I realize, out loud. “I mean, imagine what a hero I’ll be when I show up to the office Monday morning, triumphantly waving my guide map with each pub marked off!”
“Come to think of it,” he says, peering back at the guide map. “The last pub, McCoogan’s, has a pretty big gift shop. You can pick up a shirt and wear it in to work, rubbing it in everybody’s faces.”
“I like it!” I say, picturing me breezing into Marnie’s office on Monday, her probably still hung over. “And we’ll make sure to take plenty of pictures to post, gloating over our victory!”
“I like the way you think,” he says, standing and reaching for my hand. I smile, take it and let him help me out of the chair. Standing feels good but then, as I turn to walk off the back deck, panic sets in.
“Oh no!” I gasp, peering at the bike rack. “Mrs. Farnsworth’s bike got stolen—”
Ty, normally so sympathetic, seems uncharacteristically nonplussed by the grand theft bicycle.
I pause, halfway to the bike rack, when I notice the shiny new bike next to Ty’s. It’s a girl’s bike, mint green and sleek, sturdy, with fat tires, a fancy wicker basket and, on the white and green striped seat… a big green bow!
“Well, it wasn’t so much stolen,” Ty explains, grabbing my hand eagerly and dragging me closer, “so much as… replaced.”
“Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry,” he assures me, beaming that winning smile. “It’s in good hands. We can swing by and pick it up tomorrow.”
“Well then… who’s is this?”
“Go on,” he says, nudging me closer. “It’s yours.”
“But… where did it come from?”
“Guy who owns Snowflake Cycles is one of my regulars,” he explains as we drift off the back deck. “I called him while we were in Finnegan’s and asked him for a little favor. He had this mint green baby on special for St. Patrick’s Day, no one was biting, so I had him put it on my account and deliver it while you were inside ordering our appetizers earlier!”
I stand, flummoxed, heart pounding, face flushed. No one, especially no guy, and particularly no guy I’ve just met, has ever done anything this sweet for me before.
“Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” he gushes, to fill the awkward silence as I stand, trying not to succumb into a puddle of tears.
“Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper, before looking into his kind, brown eyes. “I can’t… this is too much, Ty.”
He winks. “Trust me, Cara, with all the favors my pal owes me, and the deal he was already offering on this bike, it was next to nothing. Really. I don’t… I don’t want this to get weird or anything.”
“No, no, it’s not weird,” I assure him. “Just… extravagant. I mean, what if we break up tomorrow?”
He pretends to frown, arching one eyebrow and holding his chin thoughtfully in his hand. “Is there something I should know?”
“No, no,” I sigh, before reminding him, “But this is a blind date. What if something goes terribly, horribly, awkwardly wrong? Isn’t that how these are supposed to go?”
“Keep it then,” he says. “As a souvenir of our time together!”
I chuckle. “Well, first, let’s try this baby out and see if it can make it through our last two stops.”
“Come on, my little Leprechaun,” he says, leaping on his bike and expecting me to follow as he races away. “We’ve got a pub crawl to finish!”
I leap on my new bike, stowing the garish green bow in the basket and racing to catch up. Unencumbered by Mrs. Farnsworth’s ancient unicycle, it’s surprisingly easy. Then again, watching Ty’s long, lean body course through the night makes me take my time.
After all, we’ve got all night. And, if he plays his cards right, all morning, too…
* * * * *
About the Author
Rusty Fischer is the author of Christmas in Snowflake: Three Heartwarming Holiday Tales, forthcoming from Decadent Publishing. Visit him at www.snowflakeseries.com for dozens of FREE stories from the fictional town of Snowflake!
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