But Liv isn’t into frills, and I don’t want to be beautiful or manicured or make her afraid to mess me up.
Holding my phone, I walk toward Mariette’s, a little early, so I can pick the table. Saints don’t usually come here in the middle of the week, but I don’t want to take the chance. I want her to myself.
The warm air caresses my bare arms, my stomach, and my chest, everything that’s not covered by my tank top as I walk inside in my jeans and flip flops. I put some waves in my hair with the curling iron and minimal makeup, hoping I look so positively kissable that she can’t wait to touch me.
“Sit anywhere,” the server with the ponytail and black bandana tells me as I walk in. “Can I bring you something to drink?
She grabs a tray of crawfish and carries it to a table. “Two Diet Cokes?” I ask. “And a dozen on the half shell to start. With condiments, please.”
She nods once, and I make my way through the diner to the courtyard in the back, the scent of flowers hitting me as I veer through the sparse diners to a table situated on the other side of a tree.
I drop my bag to the ground and sit down at the white, wrought-iron garden table, my chair scraping against the brick floor. The white tent walls billow with the breeze, the plastic windows fogged with the humidity, and I look up as the tree next to me reaches beyond where the roof should be, the sky overhead filled with stars.
The server sets down two drinks and then returns with a tray of oysters on ice, and I pull my water bottle out of my bag, uncapping it and instantly smell the Patrón inside.
“Don’t get started without me,” I hear someone say.
I smile and look up, seeing Liv head for the table.
But my heart nearly stops, seeing her short black skirt, long, golden legs, and black studded heels with a band secured around her ankles, making her look like she’s cuffed to a bed. Her ankles are definitely a feature I missed. One of her best. Fantastic ankles. And calves. And thighs.
Heels. I’ve never seen her in heels. Her faded, black band T-shirt is twisted tight around her body and tied at the back, baring her stomach, and I have no idea who Black Flag is, but I kind of love them now.
She wears faint red lip tint, and her hair is straightened and spilling around her.
She stands there, and after a moment she laughs a little. I realize my mouth is hanging open. I close it, my eyes trailing down her legs again.
I rise and kiss her, lingering close and smelling her soap, perfume, and lotion that all mixes to have this wonderful effect inside my belly.
“Nervous?” I ask.
She smiles. “In a good way.”
“You look amazing.”
She pulls away and sits, and I do too, a blush crossing my cheeks as I meet her eyes. All I want to do is touch her, and she knows. Now it’s just a matter of going through the motions until my bright idea of having a date ends, and we can get out of here.
We sit there for a few moments, the awkwardness of ‘what to do now’ when we’re used to either making out, having sex, or fighting leaves us at a loss for words.
“I own one non-school skirt,” she says, breaking the silence and unwrapping her straw. “And this is it.”
I like it. I slide my legs out a little more, hugging one of hers between mine. She leans her head on her hand, playing with her straw as her eyes fall to the little tears in my white top, the skin peeking through.
“What?” I ask.
“You look amazing, too.”
I feel underdressed now, but…her eyes don’t lie as they continue to linger on me.
She clears her throat as the server moves around the courtyard, music drifting through the entrance from the diner. “I haven’t been on many dates, to be honest,” she tells me. “Not sure how this is supposed to go.”
“We eat.” I unwrap my straw. “That usually takes the pressure off.”
I take a sip and stretch my arms over my head, taking some deep breaths to get those heels off my mind, but then her skirt reminds me of something, and I smile.
“I’ve seen you in that skirt before,” I tell her. “You wore it to a furniture store a couple years ago.”
She cocks her head, not seeming to remember.
“I was there with my mom.” I hold up the tabasco sauce and the lemons, giving her a choice. She points to the tabasco. “I think Army was working there, loading a piece onto a truck, and you were tagging along, I guess,” I tell her as I season two oysters. “My mom spoke to the salesman about our new dining room table she had ordered from their gallery in New York. You were moving around the store. Playing around. Plopping onto beds and couches and faking passing out when your brothers would try to lift things with you on top of them.”