Bashful Read online

After lunch—and twenty minutes of baby animal videos to cleanse my brain of Evie’s new vernacular—I changed out of my clothes and turned to the closet in my undies. I needed to try on different options for tonight. Thumbing through my shirts, I heard a knock at the door and nearly jumped out of my skin. The towel from my earlier shower was still on the bed and I yanked it to quickly cover myself.

  “Evie! Can you get that, please? I’m kind of really freaking naked right now!” I waited for a return voice, but no response came as another rap on the front door echoed through the apartment. Where the hell is she? I rushed into the hallway as the knock rapped for a third time. Seriously, it better be Publisher’s Clearing House with one of those million-dollar checks.

  “I’m coming, God,” I shouted before I pulled the door open.

  Tucker and Bash stood in the threshold, smiles giant and eyes hopeful as they held drink carriers full of coffee and smoothies.

  “Hell yes, bitch! That’s what she said!” Tucker grinned widely, sashaying past me and setting the drinks on the table.

  “Oh, like you would know, Tuck.” I smacked him. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “Well, we were going to see if you wanted to run lines again with this piece of man-meat.” Tucker pointed at Bash behind him. “I tried to assist him, but I think he’s got performance anxiety.”

  He nudged me and spoke under his breath. “Hope that’s not a problem in every area of his life, if you know what I mean.”

  Bash approached, flicking Tucker’s ear as he passed. “For acting like a little bitch sometimes, he sucks at trying to be a girl. Anyway, I hoped if I bribed you with smoothies, you’d be more amenable. You like strawberry mango, right?”

  One eyebrow perked up as I turned my head to the table, the pink smoothies in the holder making my mouth water. They did look good. I mean, I wasn’t above bribes. Turning, I half-expected Bash to wear a puppy-dog look on his face, begging for more help—but his eyes were focused lower. I rolled my eyes.

  Yes, they’re boobs. Every girl has them.

  Tightening the towel around my boobs, I cleared my throat to snap him out of it.

  “Fine, but not for long, okay? I have plans later. Let me just go throw something on.”

  Just as I finished clasping my navy lace bra shut, my door creaked open. Spinning around, I spotted Bash standing just inside my room, hip resting on my dresser. I quickly grabbed the gray Michigan College hoodie from my desk chair and slipped it on.

  “What the hell, Bash! Haven’t you heard of knocking? I was freaking naked!” I screeched.

  “I thought friends didn’t need to knock. Nice bra, by the way,” he smarmed. Plucking something from the open drawer next to him, he held the object closer to his face to inspect it. “Try on this one next.” He laughed, throwing the bundle of fabric toward me.

  I dove forward and caught the black lacy number in my hands.

  “I’m going to kill you!” I rushed toward him, shoving the lingerie back into my underwear drawer and slamming it closed. “Keep your hands out of my panties!”

  He put his hands up in defeat, laughing the entire time. “Scout’s honor,” he said, backing away slightly. “So, what are these plans you mentioned?”

  “Huh?”

  “You brought up that you couldn’t help for long because you had plans tonight. What are you doing?” He turned, checking out the mess on my desk as he awaited my answer.

  “Oh, that,” I responded, picking up a stack of papers to straighten them. We’re friends. Just spit it out, Callie. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  Without giving him room for a rebuttal, I skirted around him and into the hallway, talking over one shoulder. “Let’s run lines, shall we?”

  Bash followed closely behind, and I felt a shift of energy in the air. Weird. Whatever friendly connection we had last night had changed, and I didn’t know why.

  Tucker was seated on the couch, flipping through the stack of celebrity gossip magazines we kept on the coffee table. I plopped down next to him, pulling the script from my backpack, and motioned for Bash to do the same. He stood in front of the TV with his arms crossed, staring at me like I was supposed to answer a question he never asked.

  “Uh, so...everything okay, guys?” Tucker looked back and forth between us, confusion marring his face.

  The vibe between us was electric, and it was possible that if I looked at Bash right now, I’d get shocked. I turned to Tucker, nodding as I opened to the first scene.

  Fourteen

  “WOMAN! COME HELP ME, PLEASE? I have like ten outfits picked out and nothing to freaking wear,” I called out, wishing I had a shot of tequila to calm my nerves about my date. Jordan was supposed to be here right now. I still needed to touch up my makeup and do a final hair spritz before I could call myself ready. Early 2000s pop hits played loudly from my docking station, which was the second-best option next to alcohol. I wiggled slightly to the bass—Ja Rule was my jam.

  “All right, let’s have a dekko,” she announced, and I shot her a quizzical glare. “You really need to remember my slang is different than yours. Dekko is look.” She took in the piles of cotton-poly blends strewn about my bed. “Did your closet have a seizure?”

  “It wasn’t a seizure, just a small spasm.”

  She picked up each item of clothing one by one and dismissed them just as fast, flicking them higher up on the bed into a separate pile of obvious nos. Holding up a small bandage dress—trust me, those things look freaking TINY when they aren’t on your body—she pursed her lips and tilted her head.

  “Put this on, with your gold crushed-velvet heels. Add some smoky shadow—it’ll really make your green eyes pop.”

  I smiled in relief, rushing to the bathroom. Wrestling into the tight fabric, I smoothed it over my hips as the bell rang. Shit. He was here on time. I quickly ran gray shadow over my lids and blended furiously with my fingers before scurrying to buckle the straps of my heels.

  I overheard the deep rumble of his voice mixed with Evie’s as I grabbed my clutch and carefully walked into the living room. Don’t walk like a baby prostitute, I thought to myself as I tried my best to look sexy and move in my heels at the same time.

  Jordan looked hot, I couldn’t lie. His dirty blond hair was spiked messily with gel, and his jaw was shaved smooth. Casual but attractive, his black sports coat over a cream sweater went nicely with dark loafers and fitted jeans. He appraised me, his gaze roaming from my polished toes up to the loose blond curls I’d finished styling minutes earlier.

  “Wow. You look amazing, Callie. I’m a lucky guy,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he spoke.

  I blushed hard, feeling the redness creep down my neck.

  “Well, have her home before she turns back into Cinderella, yeah? In case you’re a hermit, that means midnight, mister,” Evie scolded, poking his shoulder.

  I opened the closet and pulled my peacoat, rolling my eyes at my protective bestie’s words.

  Jordan helped me into my coat as I seethed at Evie, my jaw clenched. “Thanks, Mother. I’ll make sure I won’t turn into a pumpkin. Bye!” Grabbing his hand, I yanked him out the door before she could think of anything else to say that would weird him out.

  Fifteen

  JORDAN UNLATCHED THE PASSENGER DOOR of his black F-250, holding his hand out to support me as I climbed onto the silver bar to hoist myself into the seat. Trying to maneuver into a giant truck without pulling a Paris Hilton was not an easy task. My body fell into the cab ungracefully, but I still beamed at my lack of panty-flash as he reached over to buckle me in. I fidgeted, adjusting the hem of my dress as I glanced around the cabin. I appreciated the cleanliness, noticing the lack of dust on the dash and recently vacuumed rugs. Jordan either just bought a brand-new ride, or he detailed it often. I swung my legs back and forth as he rounded the front of the truck, giggling a little at the fact that even in heels, I couldn’t touch the floor.

  Jordan climbed in with ease and I caught a whiff of his
cologne—very familiar, but not in a super-pleasant way. Ten bucks said it was from one of those preppy, expensive mall stores. You know, the ones where you can smell the entrance from fifty feet away as surfer music blares inside. He looked like he shopped at that store, so it made sense for him to smell like it.

  He observed me as he rested a hand in the space between us. “You look so amazing that I want to say it again.” He smirked, his perfect teeth reflecting in the twilight. “Did that count? Because if not, you look amazing...again.”

  Jordan stuck his keys in the ignition and spoke again, proudly grinning at his cheesy pickup line while focused on the windshield in front of him.

  “I’m so happy you agreed to go out with me. I hope you like French food.” Shifting the truck into gear, the seat beneath me rumbled as the engine revved to attention. He reversed and left the parking lot, the shrubbery and lit windows blurring by.

  I fucking hate French food, and that ‘say it again’ line just made me want to throw up in my mouth a little.

  I reminded myself this was a date and it was the real first impression of me that he was getting outside of Tinder and spilled alcohol. It was time to put on some big-girl panties and maybe actually try.

  We drove thirty minutes away to Ann Arbor, a popular town near the college. Pulling his truck to the curb, Jordan stepped out as he tossed his keys at an unsuspecting red-outfitted valet. The poor kid’s face matched his jacket as he mumbled something and handed Jordan a small tag.

  He stuffed it in his pocket, and with a dismissive “thanks, bro,” he rounded the truck and opened my door.

  He offered his hand and I grabbed it, carefully removing myself from the cab of his truck. The building was obviously new, but made to look old, the faux-weathered brick covered in climbing ivy. A large pallet sign was attached above the arched double doors, the name “Catin” wood-burned into it in a rolling script.

  “Shall we?” Jordan asked, hooking his arm out for me to take. I grabbed it thankfully since I was wearing such high heels, and we walked into a dimly-lit foyer packed with patrons. He bypassed multiple groups of people sitting and standing around us and headed straight to the hostess stand.

  “Hi, Liz,” he greeted the young woman, no older than twenty.

  She stepped back and focused, lifting an eyebrow as she very obviously judged me. Twirling a chunk of her long black hair, she shifted her dark eyes to Jordan. Pursing her ruby-stained lips, she perked up her chest while she studied the seating chart in front of her.

  “Hey there, handsome. Two for tonight? Would you prefer a view of the Huron River or your usual booth near the back?”

  Red flags. RED. FLAGS. Seemed like this date was his M.O. when he wanted to impress a girl.

  Winking at the hostess, he chuckled. “Just the booth, Liz. Merci. Don’t want my girl getting cold.” He smiled and wrapped an arm around my shoulder.

  She yanked two leather-bound menus from the cherry-stained stand in front of her, shooting a lateral glance between the still-waiting patrons and him. “Very well. Right this way, sir.”

  I lifted onto my toes as high as I could, pulling him lower. “Wow! Did you have reservations? That was cool. I hope we didn’t piss everyone else off, though,” I whisper-shouted as he hugged me tighter with his arm.

  “It’s not a big deal. I know the owners,” he responded as we were escorted to a half-moon booth near the back.

  An oil-rubbed bronze chandelier hung delicately above the ivory cloth-covered table. My fingers brushed the fabric and the crisp, starch feeling soothed my nerves. Our hostess put the menus directly in front of us, clearing her throat.

  “Your serveur will be with you shortly. Enjoy yourselves,” Liz said with a terrible French pronunciation of the word, her hand grazing Jordan’s sweater as she flounced away.

  I looked up, studying the ceiling. Well, then. That wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

  Jordan studied me while I perused the menu, his still unopened on the table. I focused my eyes on the different entrées, not knowing what to say to break the ice. Shouldn’t he be the one who talked first? That’s got to be some sort of dating etiquette. I was rusty at the dating game, and it was showing. As my face glazed over, I willed my panicked brain to pick out anything on the menu that sounded somewhat English, so I could eat here without wanting to puke.

  After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Jordan reached across the table. His fingers climbed to the top of my menu and slowly dropped it, folding it shut and pulling it back to his side.

  “Here comes the serveur—why don’t you let me order for you?”

  “That’d be great, thanks. Nothing is familiar,” I explained. I wasn’t used to fancy food.

  “Bonjour, my name is Pierre. May I start you off with a glass of our finest?” he asked in a heavy French accent.

  Jordan waved his request off, asking for a bottle of 2003 Chateau Angelus Bordeaux.

  “I hope you like red, Callie. This bottle is amazing.” He puffed his chest.

  Picking at my cuticles under the table, I bit my tongue on the subject. I was a white-wine girl, but I didn’t want to offend him.

  “You’ll love the subtle notes of tobacco and berry. Pierre?”

  I watched in horror as Jordan snapped—literally snapped his fingers to get our waiter back. What a dick.

  “Also, have the chef prepare a Brandade de Morue au Gratin for the table. Merci.”

  Jordan handed the menus to the waiter and turned back with a cocky smile. I sat like a statue, completely uncomfortable at not only the fact he ordered for me but that he was so comfortable doing so in French. This was NOT the funny Tinder guy I’d agreed to date.

  “Wow, I’m...impressed. So, you know French?” I smiled at him, my folded hands reaching under my chin in an ‘I’m interested’ gesture. Fake it till you make it.

  He tipped his chin at a set of older patrons passing by, flicking his hand as a ‘hello.’

  “No, not really. I’m not fluent, anyway. I’ve just picked up a few culinary terms over the years. My parents own Catin.” He lowered his voice as he leaned in to me, as if he was sharing confidential information.

  My demeanor went from annoyed to pleased very quickly. Not because his parents owned the place, but because the name of the restaurant finally clicked in my brain. Two years of high school French class hadn’t stuck, but I definitely remembered all the dirty words. I grinned widely, reaching around his hands for my water glass. My eyes broadened, because this story had to be good. I needed to hear more.

  “That must be amazing, being part of such a successful family. How did they think of such a fancy name?” I rubbed my finger along the rim of my glass, stealthily wiping away the remnants of my lip gloss.

  “Ah, good story, good story,” he said, enjoying the ego inflation. “My parents traveled to France years ago, before they had me. They stayed in a small provincial town for an entire summer to taste a myriad of different foods and wine because it was my dad’s dream to one day open a restaurant. My mom stayed behind most days, shopping and socializing—women, huh?” He chuckled.

  I smiled, even though internally I wanted to stick my fork through his hand. Sexist ass.

  “Anyway, every morning, they’d visit this tiny patisserie in the town center. When they finished their croissants and coffee, my dad would leave for whatever winery or farm he’d scheduled for the day while my mom hung around the village. Here’s the best part—every morning when they left, the elderly woman who owned the patisserie would wave to my mom and say, ‘Au revoir, catin,’ with a smile. My parents just thought she was the sweetest thing. They loved that moment so much that they chose to honor her when they opened this place. It’s an homage to the pet name my mother was given. So, that’s Catin. Great, huh?”

  I cleared my throat, willing myself not to giggle. “It’s SO great, Jordan.” Dear God, hold it together.

  I stood abruptly, pulling away from his side of the table.

  “Will you e
xcuse me, please? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  He stood as well and I turned away, fighting a smile.

  “Of course, it’s down the aisle and to the left, just past the wall,” he offered, gesturing away from us.

  I exited the booth, moving along the burgundy carpet as fast as my heels would take me. Fishing my phone from my clutch, I pulled up Google as soon as the bathroom door swung closed.

  Search: Catin in French

  Translation for Catin – Whore/Prostitute

  I started giggling and furiously searched for the appetizer he’d chosen—luckily my search for “bandaid more au gratin” turned up with the correct spelling.

  Search: Brandade de Morue au Gratin

  Brandade is a puree of salt cod, garlic, and potato emulsified with olive oil, usually prepared days beforehand. Reheated until bubbly, the salted fish mixture is then spread on crostini.

  Oh, HELL no.

  He wanted me to eat old-ass salted fish? My stomach churned at the mere thought of smelling something that horrible. No fucking way was that nastiness getting near my mouth. I wanted nothing more than to text Evie so I’d have someone to commiserate with, but I was super pissed at her at the moment. She was the one who swiped right on Tinder—she got me into this mess. I turned on the cold tap, inhaling slowly as the icy spray hit my wrists.

  Hopefully the reheated Band-Aid fish would be the worst part of the night. Jordan couldn’t get worse, right?

  I hesitantly walked out of the restroom and headed back to our table, where the slutty hostess was leaning over and showing him something on her phone. Clearing my throat, she jerked backward and almost toppled the tray of a passing waiter. He stood, blushing, before dismissing her and guiding me into the booth. Instead of returning to his side, he sat next to me.

  Yeah, dude, you’re lucky I’m allowing you to be this close to me after the herpes-hostess was all up on you.

  I dragged the glass of wine in front of me, noting the miniscule amount at the bottom. For such a ritzy place, the prostitute-restaurant didn’t appreciate a college girl’s drinking capabilities. Quickly gulping it down, I had an instant desire for more when an unpleasant smell wafted around us. Pierre came closer, setting a large black plate on the table. A hefty ramekin of mush was surrounded by small triangular toasted bread pieces. Jordan inhaled excitedly as Pierre left with a short “bon appétit.”