Pinpoint (Point #4) (9 page)

The kids rush around the room, grabbing their treats and book bags. All of a sudden, the room is empty, leaving me with flour-sprinkled countertops to clean. A heap of crumpled aprons is piled next to the classroom door. No one said good-bye or thank you or see ya
.

“Congratulations, Iris. Job well done,” I mutter sarcastically.

Oscar

Dejection hangs around her like a cape. Her shoulders crouch inward while she scrubs the countertops of one of the kitchens. I’m watching a completely different woman from the one who danced and sang to herself while she set up the room. That woman was adorable and enticing, swaying her hips to the beat of the Motown music.

Observing her unnoticed makes me feel like a voyeur, but I had no idea she was volunteering for Mentoring Chicago. When I arrived at Grover a few hours ago and saw Bruce coming from the second classroom, I stopped to talk to him. That’s when I noticed Iris bouncing around with unapologetic exuberance.

The defeat radiating from her slumped frame elicits a bizarre desire to stride into the classroom, collect her in my arms, and smooth away all the worry, rejection—hell, anything bothering her.

Where is that coming from?
Typically, I run in the opposite direction of sadness or insecurity. I have no time in my life to analyze emotion. I bulldoze through anything that bothers me and move on to the next thing.

My feet don’t get the memo. They carry me into the classroom and toward Iris. Before I know it, I’m a foot away from her, lightly touching her shoulder. I ignore the scent of sugar and vanilla that always surrounds this woman. I ignore the way my fingertips warm when my fingers meet her cotton-clad skin. “They’ll walk all over you if you don’t exert your authority.”

She yelps and, I’m an idiot, it’s the cutest sound I’ve ever heard.

What, did you lose your balls in the last two seconds?

“What are you doing here?” she asks in astonishment.

“I should probably be the one asking you that,” I say wryly. “I’ve been teaching with Mentoring Chicago for the past five years. You’re the new kid around here.” If possible, she looks even more forlorn at my words. In the past, I may have teased her, but there was never an intention to make her unhappy. Seeing her visible distress, I want to kick my own ass for causing Iris even a crumb of pain.

“They hated me. Everything I said was wrong. The music I played was ‘corny.’ The recipe schedule is boring. None of them said good-bye or even looked at me when they ran out the door. Bruce said that they wanted to be here, but only one of the students showed the least bit of interest in what I saying. What did I do wrong?” Her expression is so mournful that I can’t restrain myself from tugging the rag from her hand, pushing it aside, and pulling her to my chest. Her scent is even more intoxicating when she’s flush against my body. For a moment, she resists, but then her arms slide around my waist, and she clings to me. Every soft curve molds to my body, and I’m instantly responding. Not wanting her to get a sense of my very obvious reaction, I carefully push her away. This innocent would probably not react well to feeling the impact she has on my body.

Her smile is watery, but she doesn’t cry. Thankfully. I don’t have the slightest idea what to do with tears. “Look at me, I’m a blubbering mess. They didn’t warn me at orientation that the kids wouldn’t necessarily be thrilled to spend a few hours here.”

“After doing this for five years, I can tell you that even if they
want
to be here, teenagers will walk all over you if you show them even a hint of weakness. Next week, you need to show them who is boss. Be firm. It sounds counterintuitive, but they appreciate the guidelines.”

“Really?” When those navy doe eyes land on me, another surge of lust rips through my veins.

“Also, you may want to let them choose the music.” Her eyes crinkle as she gives me the tiniest smile. My chest fills with pride.
I
was able to cheer her up.

“You’re on to something there. I know my taste in music is retro.” She rolls her shoulders back and stands straighter. “Thanks, Oscar. I appreciate you talking me off the ledge.” To my regret, Iris moves around the kitchen, continuing to put the tools away and clean the counters. “If you’ve been volunteering here for five years, you must really like working with teenagers.”

I rest my back against the kitchen island and watch Iris finish. She fiddles with the dishrag in her hands. I know I should go, but that’s the last thing I want to do. So I keep talking to her.

“I’ll let you in on a secret. My first year was complete crap. The students didn’t care that I had just opened my second restaurant. They were tough as hell on me. By the end of it, I realized they weren’t looking for a friend.”

“Treat them like kids?” Her nose wrinkles adorably in confusion.

“Absolutely not. I try my damnedest not to even
think
of them as children, even though most of them are a few years shy of voting. Talk to them as you would anyone else, but remember that you are in charge. Don’t expect to get it right. You only see them once a week. But by the end, you’ll get the hang of it, and I promise you, this will be a rewarding experience. Next semester will be substantially easier.”

Iris’ expression softens. Her eyes tender and soft.

Fuck me.

Seeing her at Tucker’s place, I thought my physical reaction was a fluke. In that blue dress carrying a plateful of cookies, she was innocence wrapped in the most seductive package. This interaction confirms it—Iris makes me feel like a teenager who can’t control his own body.

“Thank you, Oscar. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that,” she says in a near whisper.

All of a sudden, I can’t resist her pull. Or maybe I’m finally willing to admit to myself that Iris Harper has me intrigued in a way I won’t ignore.

“Come to dinner with me.”

Iris’ dark blond eyebrows nearly hit her hairline. Her mouth falls open in disbelief, and her cheeks redden adorably. A million warning signs flash in my mind, but I’m ignoring all of them. I want her.

“What did you say?” Even her stammer entrances me. The lack of sultry finesse makes her unsoiled, honest, and alluring in the sort of way that’s been completely foreign to me until now.

“Come to dinner with me Saturday.”

“You don’t have to work on the weekend? I would imagine that’s the most important time in the restaurant industry,” she babbles. God. Awkward as she is, Iris makes me hard.

Little does Iris know she’s exactly right. I should be making an appearance at Mariposa on Saturday evening or finalizing the Mariquita menu. Right now, I can’t remember why any of that is important. My sole mission is to spend more time with this woman.

I give her my most non-threatening smile, and she visibly swallows.
Got her.
“Sometimes, I need to play hooky. Will you sneak off with me, Iris?”

Hope twinkles in her eyes. A sharp jab to the gut. She thinks there’s a chance it would be more than one date. I’ll worry about that when the time comes.

Her tongue flicks out to wet her lips, and I nearly groan aloud. “Okay.” She draws out the word into multiple syllables. “Where will we go?”

Guessing that a table at one of the city’s hottest restaurants won’t impress her, I plan to take her to an authentic Mexican restaurant in Pilsen. “A secret until Saturday.”

She smiles shyly. “I like surprises.”

We exchange phone numbers, and dammit, my heart races in my chest like I’ve just won a 50-yard dash. All I can think about is how I’m going to make those deep blue eyes smoke out with pleasure.

“Is this a fancy surprise or a casual surprise?” she asks a few minutes later when we’re walking to her car. I’m holding the bulk of her supplies (and mine), trying to ignore the warning voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea. I know exactly what I’m getting myself into, yet I won’t heed to reason. She’s going to expect more than one night with me, and I’m going to turn her down.

And potentially hurt her.

A silent war rages in my mind—but the selfish, self-serving part of me wins.
Be upfront. Tell her you’re not looking for a relationship.
And therein lies my solution. On Saturday, there will be no mistaking that our date is a one-time thing.

“A casual surprise.”

“So . . . I’ll see you Saturday,” Iris confirms after we load the trunk of her car.

Reaching down, I tuck an errant strand of honey-blond hair behind her ear. I hear her tiny intake of breath and nearly smirk.

She wants me.

“I’ll call you to arrange a time.” None of this texting bullshit. I’m a man, not a pre-pubescent teen without the balls to call a woman.

“Okay.” She sounds breathless—a sexy promise of things to come.

“Drive safely.”

“You too,” she murmurs.

Once I watch her leave the parking lot, I make my way to my own vehicle—humming.

Who is in more trouble here, you or Iris?

It’s hard to tell.

Iris

My first date. It only took twenty-seven years to get here.

Early, early this morning (as in before my first cup of coffee), Oscar left me a voice mail and told me to be ready by seven tonight. It is half past six, and I am nearly ready. Or at least, I think I’m ready. Violet’s not here for last-minute advice or a pep talk.

For the first time in ten years, I find myself not wishing for my sister to be at my side. I didn’t tell her Oscar had asked me out, and I said yes. Then I’d have to admit, out loud, that I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman who has never had a man interested enough in her to ask her on a date. I know I don’t need to be embarrassed or ashamed of anything in front of my sister because it’s not her judgment that I stand to face. It’s my own. If I focus on my inexperience, I’ll wimp out on this date before Oscar takes me to the restaurant.

Of course, once I tell Violet, she’ll tell Cameron, and I already know his opinion on the matter. This date might not go anywhere. Oscar might wear too much cologne or bore me.

Yeah, like that’s going to happen.

With a critical eye, I assess my appearance in the full-length mirror on my closet door. The warm temperatures are cooling into Indian summer. I tucked a white silky button-down blouse into a pleated, burgundy skirt. Even though I’m still not a pro at navigating with heels, I have on tan, strappy sandals to give me a couple of extra inches. My hair flows around my shoulders in loose waves, and I painted my lips with a pink gloss. The rest of my makeup is subdued with a few swipes of mascara and eyeliner at the corners of my eyes.

The unforgiving bleep of the doorbell startles me. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s exactly seven o’clock. Holy cow. Those thirty minutes swam by quickly. I grab my nude clutch, place it under my arm, and hurry toward the intercom downstairs. “Be down in one minute,” I say. Then I rush through the apartment, shutting off all the illuminated lights, and then race out the door. I don’t want to keep Oscar waiting.

The moment I see him waiting for me outside the back apartment building door, I come to a halt. With a hand shoved in his denim pocket, a few days’ stubble covering his cheeks and his relaxed stance, he looks perfectly at ease and . . . gorgeous. There’s no other word to describe the man on the other side of the door. Dark-washed denim fits his muscular legs in all the right ways—not too baggy and not too tight. A slate gray t-shirt hugs his biceps and broad chest. He must own a closet full of these monochromatic shirts, but no matter. The color sets off his tan and complements his cinnamon-colored eyes. My heart thuds in my chest.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

Then he smiles, and I realize I’m standing there inside staring at him like a statue.

Laughing at myself, I push the door open. “Like what you see?” Oscar says in a ridiculously deep, teasing voice.

I ignore the way my cheeks get hot. “I like the way you look.”

The teasing glint in his brown eyes disappears. They darken with an intensity that makes me want to shiver. Somehow, I manage to stay still as Oscar reaches out to drag his knuckles along the apple of my cheek. “That’s good because I like the way you look.”

A foot separates us. If I took a step closer, our chests would nearly touch. If I moved to my tiptoes, my lips would fuse to his. What would it be like to kiss Oscar? What would it be like to have a meaningful kiss?

It seems I’m not the only one in a trance. Oscar stares at me with . . . Is that hunger? His eyes darken to nearly black. His lips are parted, too. He wants to kiss me too. I know it.

Somewhere on Milwaukee Avenue, an angry driver lays his entire weight on his car horn. The noise makes my shoulders jump, and I laugh a little at the interruption. The noise makes Oscar blink a few times, dark eyelashes fanning as his eyes open and shut.

“Shall we?” Oscar touches the tips of his fingers to my lower back, guiding me to his low-slung sports car. I revel in the unfamiliar attention and am thrilled when he opens the passenger door.

“Chivalry isn’t dead.” I smile at him appreciatively when I settle into the plush leather seat.