Free Bicoastal Babe by Cynthia Langston Page A

to a date?”
    “He’s not there yet?” I’d filled her in on the details earlier this afternoon, somewhere between my bikini wax and my professional shampoo.
    “Wasn’t he supposed to be there a half hour ago?” she asks.
    “Just answer the question.”
    “Umm…” She ponders nervously. “Well… I’ve never…”
    “Okay, look. Just distract me. I don’t want to start the night off in a mood.”
    “Lindsey, I’m sure he’ll have a perfectly good explanation. Why don’t you have a nice glass of wine while you’re waiting?”
    Silence.
    “You’ve already had one.”
    More silence.
    “You’ve had two.”
    More silence.
    “Okay, listen. It’s New York. The traffic is probably crazy. I’m sure he’ll feel awful and have a bouquet of flowers and a great explanation –”
    I hear a buzz on the wall.
    “Holly – he’s here.”
    “You see? Call me tomorrow. Have fun, sweetie.”
    I hang up, clear my throat, and glare at the buzzer. Hmph! I won’t answer on the first buzz, or even the second. Make him wait. Make him sweat. I’ll be “fashionably late” in answering the door. See how he likes it.
    Another buzz. Who am I kidding?
    I dive at the panel. “Victor?”
    “Lindsey, I’m downstairs. Come down.”
    “Why don’t I buzz you up?”
    “And walk up five flights of stairs? No, thanks. I’ll hold a cab.”
    Wait a minute. Where’s my apology? Where are my flowers? He should come up to the door like a gentleman. And besides, I want to see him in my apartment. I want to take a mental snapshot of him standing here, being here, for when I wake up and realize this was all a dream – at least I’ll have the image stuck in my mind.
    “Uh, Victor? I’m not quite ready yet. Can you just come up for a minute?”
    A moment, and then I hear him sigh. “Fine.”
    And a moment later here he is, standing in my apartment. He’s dashingly handsome in his dark gray suit, with a green silk handkerchief stuck in the breast pocket. He doesn’t seem to be wearing any apologies or holding any bouquets, but the image of him more than makes up for whatever it is he’s forgotten.
    “You look ready to me,” he says.
    I’ll take that as a compliment. “Thank you,” I gush. “I just have to…” My voice trails off as I turn toward the bathroom. I just have to what? Here, I’ll just shuffle some things around and make a little noise.
    “Lindsey, we’re going to miss our reservation.” He sounds a little irritated, and I wonder, How
did
he get reservations at Nobu on such short notice? That’s hot. Major two-thumbs-up cool.
    On the cab ride over, Victor asks all about my job and laughs when I tell him I’ve been in New York less than a week.
    “I knew it!” he exclaims. “You are so
not
Manhattan!”
    I frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    He gives me a little squeeze and smiles. “It’s a good thing, Lindsey. Trust me. You’re very… I don’t know. Fresh. Does that make sense? You’re refreshing to me.”
    In an ideal world I’d be described as capturing the look of the stylish, edgy New Yorker that I truly am at heart, not be made to sound like a stick of Doublemint gum following a whippet and a Mountain Dew. But when Victor takes my hand and whispers, “I like you,” all bets are off.
    •   •   •
    Nobu is beautiful. And Simon Cowell is sitting at the corner table. And when Victor said, “I have a reservation,” to the hostess, she smiled and replied (
without
asking his name), “Right this way, Mr. Ragsdale.”
    “Do you like sake?” Victor asks, opening the menu.
    “I’ve never had it. I don’t really go out for sushi. I usually get my sushi from the refrigerated bin at Pick ’n Save.”
    Victor laughs. “What the hell is that?”
    “That’s my corner grocery store at home in Chicago. Or it was.”
    “Tell me you’re not serious.”
    “Okay, I’m not serious. But I made you laugh.”
    He laughs again.
    “Well, I mean, that
was
my corner store, and