guard, but really she was hyperconscious of every move Mark made. He leaned back in his chair, watched Gavin patiently, both the kid’s fingers and his face, as if there was so much to learn from this guy that he couldn’t tear his eyes away. And yet, every so often his gaze fell on Haven like a touch—on her hair, on the hem of her skirt, on all the parts of her that were alert to him.
Which, for complicated reasons, made her think about her date on Saturday night—two nights after she’d watched Mark jam—with Jewelry Marketing Guy, whose name was Greg. It had been perfect, on paper. Greg had showed up in a thoroughly pressed blazer, taken her to an art opening, introduced her to people he knew and made smooth small talk with people
she
knew. He took her to dinner, held the door, removed her coat and turned it over to the hostess, pulled out her seat. He told her about his job and listened intently while she talked about hers. And there was something to be said for
not
feeling as though she had a whole Olympic luge team hurtling around in her stomach. She was way more relaxed with this guy than she’d been with Mark, and that seemed to bode well for compatibility. Compatibility, after all, was what she was after.
After a tasty death-by-chocolate dessert, he paid for the dinner without making too big a fuss about it, and he hailed them a cab and took her back to her apartment. In her mental tally, she gave him points for each of those accomplishments, and she decided that she should definitely let him kiss her.
The driver asked if he should wait, and Greg said no, he’d walk home. That was smooth, Haven thought. No cab idling at the curb, but no making it too obvious that he hoped for curbside—or upstairs—action. Another point in the plus column, and none—none!—in the minus column. This was the most promising date she’d had in eons. She couldn’t wait to tell Elisa.
The street had been quiet outside her building. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”
“Me, too,” Greg said.
He took a step closer to her and bent to kiss her. It took a long time for his face to get near hers. Was he moving at snail speed? His lips touched hers. Then he drew back and smiled at her.
Huh.
Well, it had been a very brief kiss. Not really long enough to
feel
anything.
For some reason, she thought of Mark’s face in the barbershop mirror. That intense gaze, as if he knew exactly what she was wearing under her clothes and, even worse, what she was thinking.
Greg had looked at her closely, as if gauging her reaction, and then lowered his face again.
Kissing
her. Like, serious. Not bad technique. Not wet or sloppy or too much tongue or anything negative she could think of. In fact, on paper, this should have been perfect.
It was just that it was
entirely on paper
. Not a molecule of arousal stirred in her.
Whereas on Friday night, watching Mark play guitar, just
talking
to him, it had
all
been stirring. Parts she didn’t even know she had, actually, little invisible hairs and supersensitive bits of skin.
Those same parts were stirring now—
Where is he? What is he doing?—
almost as though they were iron filings, straining toward him. If she let down her guard, would she be drawn right over there?
She let herself watch, because it was too hard not to. Mark was explaining something about picking technique, leaning over his gorgeous—almost tiger-striped—acoustic guitar and showing Gavin what he was doing. While Mark was talking, Gavin started strumming and messing around with fingerings, which would have driven Haven crazy—because obviously he wasn’t paying attention if he was playing. But Mark didn’t make him stop. In fact, Mark stopped playing and talking, and listened to Gavin, with his full, undivided attention.
“Let me show you something,” Mark said. He played the same lick, but with embellishments. It made Gavin’s rendition sound small and flat, as if Mark’s was full of
Which, for complicated reasons, made her think about her date on Saturday night—two nights after she’d watched Mark jam—with Jewelry Marketing Guy, whose name was Greg. It had been perfect, on paper. Greg had showed up in a thoroughly pressed blazer, taken her to an art opening, introduced her to people he knew and made smooth small talk with people
she
knew. He took her to dinner, held the door, removed her coat and turned it over to the hostess, pulled out her seat. He told her about his job and listened intently while she talked about hers. And there was something to be said for
not
feeling as though she had a whole Olympic luge team hurtling around in her stomach. She was way more relaxed with this guy than she’d been with Mark, and that seemed to bode well for compatibility. Compatibility, after all, was what she was after.
After a tasty death-by-chocolate dessert, he paid for the dinner without making too big a fuss about it, and he hailed them a cab and took her back to her apartment. In her mental tally, she gave him points for each of those accomplishments, and she decided that she should definitely let him kiss her.
The driver asked if he should wait, and Greg said no, he’d walk home. That was smooth, Haven thought. No cab idling at the curb, but no making it too obvious that he hoped for curbside—or upstairs—action. Another point in the plus column, and none—none!—in the minus column. This was the most promising date she’d had in eons. She couldn’t wait to tell Elisa.
The street had been quiet outside her building. “Thank you,” she said. “I had a lovely time.”
“Me, too,” Greg said.
He took a step closer to her and bent to kiss her. It took a long time for his face to get near hers. Was he moving at snail speed? His lips touched hers. Then he drew back and smiled at her.
Huh.
Well, it had been a very brief kiss. Not really long enough to
feel
anything.
For some reason, she thought of Mark’s face in the barbershop mirror. That intense gaze, as if he knew exactly what she was wearing under her clothes and, even worse, what she was thinking.
Greg had looked at her closely, as if gauging her reaction, and then lowered his face again.
Kissing
her. Like, serious. Not bad technique. Not wet or sloppy or too much tongue or anything negative she could think of. In fact, on paper, this should have been perfect.
It was just that it was
entirely on paper
. Not a molecule of arousal stirred in her.
Whereas on Friday night, watching Mark play guitar, just
talking
to him, it had
all
been stirring. Parts she didn’t even know she had, actually, little invisible hairs and supersensitive bits of skin.
Those same parts were stirring now—
Where is he? What is he doing?—
almost as though they were iron filings, straining toward him. If she let down her guard, would she be drawn right over there?
She let herself watch, because it was too hard not to. Mark was explaining something about picking technique, leaning over his gorgeous—almost tiger-striped—acoustic guitar and showing Gavin what he was doing. While Mark was talking, Gavin started strumming and messing around with fingerings, which would have driven Haven crazy—because obviously he wasn’t paying attention if he was playing. But Mark didn’t make him stop. In fact, Mark stopped playing and talking, and listened to Gavin, with his full, undivided attention.
“Let me show you something,” Mark said. He played the same lick, but with embellishments. It made Gavin’s rendition sound small and flat, as if Mark’s was full of
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