tried to apologize, right? I supposed I could give him another chance.
“I sincerely doubt you’ve ever been a Scout in your life,” I murmured, settling on the sofa again; but when he joined me on the same sofa, I narrowed my gaze, suspicious all over again. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable over there?” I motioned to his previous seat.
“Actually,” he said with mild embarrassment, “I have a hard time hearing in my left ear—sailing accident when I was a kid—so in all seriousness, if we’re going to do this, I need to sit a bit more closely.”
I felt a bit sheepish as my mouth shaped an embarrassed moue and nodded. “Okay, then.” Nico waited patiently while I fished my recorder from my purse, ready to start again. “Describe your perfect date,” I proposed, thrusting the recorder toward Nico with an expectant expression.
He didn’t hesitate. “Sex. Dirty, sexy, sweaty sex.”
Oh, good grief. Was it too much to ask to get a PG-13 answer from the man? “Can you perhaps give me something to work with? I can’t write that all it takes to make a perfect date in your book is lots of sex.”
“Why not? It’s the truth,” he said, and this time I could tell he was being completely honest. I stiffened against the unwelcome and inappropriate thrill that chased my spine as he added, “It’s the best way to get to know someone.”
I hesitated, trying to decide which way to proceed. My gut said to pack up and leave, but I was genuinely curious as to why he believed in his answer. Curiosity killed the cat, remember? And yet, I challenged for the sake of argument, “Seriously? Pardon me if I call bullshit. Don’t you find that just a little shallow?”
“Not at all,” he said, enjoying the chance to defend his answer. “What’s a date all about? Getting to know someone, right?”
I took the bait and nodded slowly, remaining wary. “Yes, I suppose so.”
He smiled, asking, “May I?” reaching for my hand. I hesitated but relented, allowing Nico to grasp my free hand. He flipped my hand, palm-side down, to trace the small veins beneath my skin. I fought to keep the shivers at bay, trying to remain outwardly unaffected, even bored. “Let’s say the underside of your palm represents your private self and the top of your hand represents the shield we put up to protect the soft parts of our hand that we only trust with those we know won’t hurt us.”
“Okay,” I said, puzzled, drawing a short breath as my heart rate quickened. “How does that relate to sex on the first date?”
“I challenge you to tell me any other way to truly get to know someone without using sex.” He slowly rotated my hand so my palm faced up. “Sex reveals vulnerabilities, our deep truths, and strips away the facades that we readily wear to hide ourselves from the world. In other words, sex removes the shield, leaving us with our soft spots unprotected.”
I swallowed as tiny trembles I couldn’t contain shook my body. I pressed my lips together before my tongue darted to wet my bottom lip. Suddenly, it was very warm in his apartment, and the air had become charged with electricity. “I...guess I see your point...but it’s a stretch,” I lied, loathe to let him see how his little demonstration had turned up my internal heat.
He laughed, disagreeing. “In truth, Miss Hughes...sex is the great equalizer, and what better way to determine whether or not you are a match than when you are in your deepest reality?”
I allowed him to hold my hand a moment longer than necessary, then quickly withdrew, shaking my head with a wobbly “Interesting theory but I’m not sure I can put that in the article. Luxe isn’t that kind of magazine. We’re more about classy, not trashy.”
I was totally lying. Patrice would eat that shit up and probably highlight the passage in a glitzy pull quote, but I couldn’t bring myself to admit that.
The awful truth was, Nico had somehow turned a far-fetched explanation into the sexiest demonstration I’d ever experienced, and I hated the way I felt way too breathless for my own comfort. I wasn’t like Daphne, easily seduced or beguiled with a few choice words, but I could still feel the phantom touch of his fingers tracing my skin.
Nico didn’t seem to mind and shrugged. “I’m only being honest. You asked what my idea of a perfect date would be, and I answered you.”
I rubbed at my hand. “So lie to me,” I quipped with a flustered laugh, realizing my gaffe, then amended quickly, “I mean, don’t lie but maybe use your imagination. You have to remember that women are going to read this and want to know how they can impress you. This is your chance to put your dreams out there.”
“As in my dream woman?” he asked for clarification, shaking his head, as if he knew there was no such thing. Something about that fatalistic opinion struck me as sad, though I wasn’t a hopeless romantic by any means. I knew that true love was just a greeting card sentiment, but a part of me wished it were real. Maybe deep down, Nico did, too.
“Sure,” I answered, curious as to what he considered the epitome of a female partner.
But Nico didn’t seem interested in following that plot thread and detoured neatly as his gaze traveled the angle of my neck as sensuously as if his lips were nibbling a trail. “Were you ever a dancer?” he surprised me by asking.
My cheeks flushed with heat as I admitted, “Uh, yes, when I was younger. A long time ago.”
“But you’re not anymore.”
“No.”
“Why’d you give it up?”
Even though my hopeful ballet career died a long time ago, it still hurt to revisit those memories. I should’ve snapped my mouth shut but I didn’t. “I hurt my knee performing a grand jeté when I was sixteen. It was never the same afterward and I knew I’d never make it to the New York City Ballet with that kind of injury, so I quit dancing altogether.”
“Tragic,” he murmured, and I sensed he was being genuine. His expression turned quizzical. “From what I understand, injuries are common for dancers but many heal with the right care and therapy. Why didn’t you?”
Nico could never possibly understand how something like that would’ve been totally outside of my family’s capabilities financially. I’d known the minute the muscle had torn that my career was done. “My parents didn’t have the money for the intensive care that my injury required to put me back to where I was,” I explained, stiffening against the inevitable ache in my heart for what would never be. “I wasn’t going to ask my parents to bankrupt themselves so I could continue dancing.” The clip in my tone was a warning that he was treading on dangerous ground. I lifted the recorder with a pointed look. “Now, about that dream woman...”
Nico smiled, slow and easy, ignoring my lead. “I’ve always had a thing for dancers. There’s just something about the graceful way they carry themselves that always seems to stick with them, even long after they’ve stopped dancing.”
I couldn’t argue. I prided myself on maintaining proper posture, a throwback to my dancing days. An imaginary string pulled taut perpetually suspended my head. I could still hear my dance instructor’s voice, “Backs straight, chins high, dahling!”
“Do you miss dancing?” he asked, interrupting my short reverie.
I
