Stories Of Paper: Unwritten Love

Chapter-Four-Katie

Standing in my closet, digging through my clothes. I wish I gave him a little hint as to where I would like to go. I have no clue how to dress. I have been on a writing frenzy since I got back home from the coffee shop on Wednesday, it's like the words were speaking to me. I have been so caught up in my story that I haven't showered in two days, cleaned a damn thing, or even cooked for myself. I ordered take out, then when my eyes were burning, not able to look at my screen any longer I would roll over and fall asleep. Only to repeat the process. Nina was so over the moon when I told her the story of meeting Pete. I frankly explained to her that I wasn't able to step foot back into that coffee shop ever again. I’m not looking for love myself, just a story to run with, well maybe just a little love myself but I can't tell her that. She didn't take that very well. I could vividly see the heart emojis rolling off the top of her head as she went shopping and dropped off a bag of the sluttiest dresses on my porch.

Practically my entire closet is spread over my bed, hair still wet from my shower, mulling over my choices. Choosing the simplest option, trying not to look too desperate. Skinny jeans, low cut blouse, and sandals, you know the ones with the strap in case we have to run or something crazy. Why am I immediately thinking about running? Am I making a huge mistake?

Dislodging the thoughts all together, I run to the bathroom, dry my hair, throw a little mascara on with lipstick. Just as I step back to take a full view, there is a knock at the door. Feeling totally not ready, knowing I can't keep Pete waiting out there forever, I grab my clutch and head for the door.

Greeted by Pete, I take him in. Dark wash jeans, button up flannel shirt that is rolled up to his elbows, light scruff on his face, his hair looks like he has been messing with it for hours or styled it in that expertly pieced out look, I’m yearning to run my hands through it. And the muscles, did I mention the muscles? I think not, in the coffee shop he had all his gear on. He looked fit but by god is he fit when you strip it away.

Growing more nervous now, I'm staring at him like he is a piece of meat, not saying a word. I can feel his eyes wander over my body, when our eyes lock, he finally breaks the silence.

“You look absolutely beautiful Katie.” I feel my cheeks heat.

“You look very handsome yourself.” Pete takes my hand, helping me over the step in the entryway. Waits for me to lock up and offers his arm to walk me to the car. These gestures alone have set the precedence of how I know the night is going to go. I don't think I have ever had a man treat me with respect and etiquette the way Pete just did, and the night has just begun. He guides me to the passenger side door, opens my door for me, waits for me to get in, and closes it after me. I’m in big trouble. Classieness oozes off of him, I could get used to this so easily. Remember Katie it's just a date, you aren't looking for anything serious.

Pete sits in the driver's seat, turns on the ignition, the AC roars to life filling my nostrils with the most intoxicating masculine scent. Needing a distraction, I look towards Pete “Where are we off to?”

“It’s a surprise.” He says, eyes trained forward. Muscles in his hands flex as he grips the steering wheel.Sweet Jesus, even his hands have muscles. Is it hot in here?

“Not even a hint? How am I supposed to know that you aren't going to take me somewhere secluded to murder me?” Realizing what I just said, wishing I could take the words back. Word vomit is a real disease. He has no clue who I am, I can't help myself from saying what's on my mind. Or something to get a rise out of someone.

He chuckles “Only one way to find out.” Thank fu8ck, he took it as a joke. The rest of the short drive we sat in a comfortable silence. We pull up to City Beach, confused. I look over to him. He's smirking like he knows that I'm going to call him out on my murder assumption. I won't give him the satisfaction of a freak out now. He parks in the lot, jumps out of the car and walks to the passenger side, opens my door for me, helps me out, and closes it behind me. I don't think that could ever get old. He opens the trunk, raising my suspicions further, he looks at me as my eyebrows raise to practically my hairline.

“I made us a picnic, I hope that's ok?” As he gathers the supplies out of the trunk.

“It’s perfect, can I help you carry anything?” As I peered in the trunk. No murder kit, check.

Pete points to the blankets “If you could carry those, we will be all set.” He won't even let me carry anything. Can you queue the swooning now? No, I can't go that far just yet. I follow closely behind him, when he finds the perfect spot, I start spreading out the blanket. He gets busy setting up the basket and drinks, clicks on a dim lantern light, pulls out a radio, turns it on to some comforting country music. Pete holds out his hand to help me down to the blanket. Who is this guy? Why haven't I seen him around? More importantly, why is he raising his son by himself?

“Are you comfortable?” Pete asks as he hands me a glass of wine.

“Very, jumping to the grand slam date I see.” I eye him through my glass.

“If that's what you think, I'll take it.”

“What were you going for?”

“Honestly?”

“Of, course.”

He takes a sip of wine, his hands look entirely too big for the glass, it looks like one of those throw away plastic glasses they give you at a work party, you know the ones they give you so that you don't drink too much. “I figured we needed to get to know each other. I kept racking my brain about what kinds of food you liked, if you liked any outdoor sports, what kind of movies you liked, I came up blank. I know this is totally the cliche date that every woman swoons over so I had to start here. I hope you are not disappointed.”

How sweet can this man be? He thought of every detail. Need to get to know me? Find out what I like? How is that a thing? Most men will try to woo you with drinks, a fancy restaurant, fancy cars, clothes, you name it. Not Pete. I really believe that he would want to move the moon to impress a girl. “I’m actually shocked, and thrilled.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one the simplicity of it all, and two wanting to get to know someone before choosing the easiest option and springing for a fancy restaurant.”

“That's not my style.” Pete opens the basket, takes out some containers. He starts diving up the meal onto plates. He moves so fluidly, with the muscles in his arms flexing and releasing with every move. Feeling myself heat up, salvia building up in my mouth. Unable to take my eyes off of his forearms.

“I hope you like chicken marsala and green beans. I made it myself.” Says Pete. Breaking me from my trance. Did he say he made it himself? Good looking, did I say good looking I mean drop dead gorgeous, dangerously handsome, has a great job, takes care of his son by himself, cooks, and is charming. There has to be something wrong with him. Down right dirty secret he keeps tucked in his kangaroo pouch to never resurface again.

Arm outstretched with my plate, staring at me, look of worry on his face. Snapping out of it, I grab my plate from him. “It's perfect.”

“Where did you just go there in that beautiful head of yours?” A smirk lifting the corners of his lips. Beautiful? How can this incredibly stunning man think I’m beautiful, he could have his pick of the bunch and he chooses to take me out? I feel like I'm being pranked or something. Like Ashton Kutcher is going to come out from behind one of the trees any minute and say “You got punked!”

“I was just thinking how thoughtful it was for you to make dinner for us. I would have been happy with take out. You didn't have to go through all the trouble.” His smirk somehow turns sultry, eyes darken a bit, shoulders relax, very happy with himself.

“I told you I had to do it right. I hope you enjoy it. Enough about the date and everything I have done, I need more ammo for our next date.” My cheeks heat again, our date has barely begun and he's already thinking about the next? This sweet, sweet man.

“Ammo? Why? What more do you need?” Acting clueless. Reveling in the fact that I know exactly what he wants but not willing to just bring it forward. He needs to work for it. At least that's what I tell myself.

“So Katie tell me what do you do for a living?” Pete says as he cuts into his chicken.

Hoping he takes this well. Not many men like to date writers, especially romance writers. At least in my experience, it was problematic in the past. It's like they think you are judging them in the bedroom or something. Not saying I don't, but I don't expect them to be so dramatic or climatic as the novels are. I have also been told, yes I said that correctly TOLD that they don’t want me to get my s*x scene ideas from what we do in the bedroom. Where else would you get your inspiration from? Yes you fluff and stuff it but come on. The best time to write is right after an orgasm, am I right? Taking the leap of faith, I say. “I’m a writer.”

Still sifting around on his plate not missing a beat. “What kind of a writer?”

“Romance novels.”

“Huh.. that sounds interesting. What name do you write under?”

“My own name, Katie Reign.” Taking a bite of the marsala, an explosion of flavors sift through my taste buds. This is so amazing, a moan escapes my throat. This causes him to look at me with a huge smile. Now he knows he hit the mark with this meal. “I don't believe for a minute you made this. It's extraordinary.” I playfully point my fork at him.

Through a fit of laughter, Pete says. “My kitchen disaster will tell you otherwise.”

“Oh, I knew there was something wrong with you. You are one of those that uses all the dishes, does not clean them waiting for someone, anyone to take pity on you, and do the dishes. Better yet you throw them away after each use and buy new ones.”

His laughter getting harder now, he's clutching his chest, leaning forward, expertly holding his glass of wine away from himself, straight up in the air, trying for the life of him not to spill a drop. “You caught me.” He says when he was finally able to speak again. Chuckles still escaping him as he continues. “I just pray to the dish gods to help me, sometimes when they dont take pity, needing desperately to make dinner, I run out to the store and buy new.” Loving the way this conversation is going, he gets my humor. He doesn't seem to be phased at all by my profession. I can see us being friends, maybe I'm getting a little more from him than a normal friend vibe. I have to keep in mind that this date was so he could check up on me after our little “accident”. Is it? We both calm down, continuing to devour our food, and I definitely mean devour, I can't stop myself from shoveling this spectacular meal into my face.

“If you are half as funny in your novels as you are in person, I just have to read them.” His eyes connect with mine, no doubt in them, he's serious that he is interested in me, my thoughts, my novels. Not even my family is that interested in my “works of art”. They have maybe read one or two of them. “Where can I find them?”

“They are pretty much everywhere, my publicist is the best. Placing them anywhere she can get her hands on.” With my plate completely licked clean, at least I wish I could have licked it clean, I start to place it next to me on the blanket. Pete apparently wouldn't have that and whisks it out of my hand, placing it back in the basket, along with his own.

“Is that what brought you to the coffee shop? Your writing?” Pete stretches out on the blanket, legs crossed at the ankles, leaning on his elbow, wine in hand, looking completely edible. I might have to take up photography after this date. He has given me the best ideas for my cover photo shoot.

“Yea, not my idea of inspiration. My friend Nina suggested that I get out of my house to another atmosphere. Her grand plan to rekindle the fire, so to speak.”

“So, you normally don't work outside of your home?”

“Correct, I hate being in public when I’m trying to write. I feel like people are reading over my shoulder. Plus they are more of a distraction than a muse.”

“I get that. Apparently there is a part of the story I’m missing. Rekindle the fire?" Looking amused and intrigued. He quirks his brow.

I move to lay out on the blanket as well. "Kind of in a rut right now. Dare I say it out into the universe… I am currently suffering from the dreaded writer's block." I wince as I say the last few words, hoping my admission won't cause the apocalypse in my near future. Just in case, I crossed my fingers before I spoke my truth. I know that sounds juvenile but when it comes to my writing I am all sorts of superstitious.

Placing his hand over his forehead. "Not the dreaded writer's block!" Pete exclaims and fans his face. I can't help but laugh and join in on the fanning. Leaning towards him, waving my hands rapidly in front of his face. He leans back, closes his eyes, enjoying the royal treatment.

I sit back down, pick up my wine. Still chuckling. The sun is starting to set, trees encasing our spot, sun casting a magnificent glow across the water, the myriad of colors mixing in the sky, it's so peaceful. "So, I've got to know. Did our little encounter knock some inspiration into that pretty head of yours?"

"Don't tell a soul. But yes, yes it did. I went straight home and have been on a writing frenzy since. This is the first time I've even alloted myself to breathe since then. Still a very far cry from finished but I have those old brain cells kicked into gear."

"Since I was the one to provide that creative power, that means I get a preview before it hits the shelves?" Aww he thinks he's cute.

"Nope! You can read it when it's released. It's sweet that you think you can hit me with cake and get a free read though."

"Brutal, Katie, very brutal." Pete reaches into the basket again. "Close your eyes, I have a surprise for you." I do as I'm told.

"Ta da!" He exclaims, I opened my eyes and the exact cake from the coffee shop was placed in the middle of us. "I figured you would like to try it like a normal person. Instead of the crazy lady that smashed it all over her face and ate it with her fingers." This will never get old. An inside joke about cake I can get behind. From this point forward I know we are going to crack up whenever a cake is around. People will probably stare at us like we are deranged idiots, that's their problem. Not ours. I feel so comfortable with Pete. How I can feel like we have known eachother forever, I will never be able to explain.

"Still sticking with your version of the story, I see. I'll allow it just this once, I can't have you taking that cake away over your lapse of memory. I'll blame the wine in my mind tonight for you." I say, as I gesture towards his glass that is now empty.

"Why, thank you. I was hoping you would say that. I was fully prepared to throw it in the water. Throw a tantrum and pout. I'm getting really good at it. Jax has taught me very well." A goof grin spreads across his face. He hands me my slice. Our fingers graze each other, a chill runs up my hand, igniting my nerve endings. This feeling, I don't know what to do about it. Never personally experiencing it before. Written about it a million times, it's different from the words on the page. Does he feel it too? When our eyes connect, I get my answer.