I step into The Enchanted Garden, a small rustic-style restaurant on the outskirts of town.
The place is buzzing with positive energy. Scanning the interior, I see large parties bellowing with laughter, small parties relishing their meals as if they’re eating the best food on Earth, and a few couples scattered in between, sipping drinks and nodding in agreement.
One person in particular catches my eye: a bearded man sitting alone at a table against the back wall. Jesus! He’s ripped. His posture is so perfectly straight that he looks like a mannequin. His thick, black hair is pulled into a man-bun, and his red plaid shirt barely conceals his steely build. My eyes trail down to his blue denim jeans and black polished boots. Everything on him is strikingly vibrant and pristine, like his outfit came fresh off the rack.
Were it not for the occasional blink and the slight twitch of his nose, I might have thought he was part of the log cabin decor.
He’s the only one alone. Maybe that’s him, but, uh, what is he staring at?
I follow his gaze to a couple two tables over.
Hmm…
They’re visibly uncomfortable. Can they feel him staring? The woman peers over her shoulder at him and then back to her partner. Her companion glances over at him too, only to discover this bearded man won’t break eye contact. The companion shrugs in a what’s-your-problem kind of way, and they scoot their chairs around the table―just enough to block his line of sight. He doesn’t react to any of it. It’s almost like he’s staring through them rather than at them.
“Ma’am?”
Was he just sitting there, staring at them the whole time?
“Ma’am!”
The host’s voice breaks my attention from the scene.
“Oh! Um, sorry. I didn’t catch what you were saying.”
“Do you have a reservation?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. I believe it was made under the name Grady.”
“Grady? Got it. Your party is already here. Right this way.”
We take a path that seems to lead away from the lumbersexual sitting alone. I’m tempted to tell the host we’re going the wrong way, but then again, I’m not even sure that guy is my blind date. As we snake between tables, I scan the restaurant for anyone else who could be sitting alone, casting hopeful glances at whoever walks by. No one.
We work the outer edge of the room and finally head down a path that has us approaching the bearded man from the rear. Now I’m certain he is the guy Terry set me up with. He turns his head slightly—as if he can sense me coming from 20 paces away―then turns completely. We make eye contact and he immediately rises to his feet, smiling from ear to ear, arms outstretched for an embrace.
Huh? What is he doing?
We’re not even close, and now I feel like the host isn’t walking fast enough. Patrons look around the place, in search of who has yet to claim this free hug.
Oh my God. Dude. Put your arms down already.
When we finally reach the table, the host bows slightly before excusing himself. I extend a hand to greet my date. “Hi there. Grady, I presume?”
His eyes drop to my hand. He snickers as if I’ve violated a well-known rule of etiquette. He lowers his arms and, in a swift motion, shoves my hand out of the way so that I am left wide open for a hug. Before I can protest, he moves in for the embrace. He squeezes me so tight my chest feels like balloons pressed against glass. What the actual fu—?
Then I catch his scent. Myrrh? Sage? Sandalwood? I can’t pinpoint it, but it’s earthy, warm, and inviting—so much so that the desire to shove him off me goes away. I just linger in the hug until he releases me to pull out a chair.
I plop into it, slightly dazed, wondering if that full-body hug just happened.
“Yes,” he finally says. “My name is Grady.”
I’m not sure what signal my face is giving him, but his eyes show a flash of concern.
“Sorry about that. I got a little excited.”
Yeah, no shit.
“Terry told me you were beautiful, but I had no idea he meant the kind of beauty that would take my breath away.”
This time, I know what signal I’m putting out. I can feel my brows still reaching for the sky, and my mouth hanging open in awe―not because of his courtly line.
“Clearly, I take your breath away too.” He chuckles.
He’s not wrong, but it’s not what he thinks. I’m baffled by the sound of his voice. Here sits a man who looks like he could break a tree trunk over his knee, yet he sounds like a jolly, high-pitched, happy-to-be-alive bake-sale mom. I cannot reconcile what I see with what I hear.
Terry, Terry, Terry… Who the heck did you set me up with?
“So,” Grady says, “how do you know Terry?”
I take in more of his appearance as he talks, noticing streaks of gray in his hair and a prominent overbite.
“Terry? Oh, we’re actually neighbors. I moved into my house some years back and he showed up with a welcome basket. I was impressed, ‘cause like, who does that? Like we’re in a movie”
Grady is constantly blinking. I’m not counting, but if I had to guess, it might have been 15 times during my very short explanation.
“And uh…” My brain is working overtime to ignore the constant flutter of his eyes and focus on what I’m saying, “We hit it off right away. Now, he’s more of a big brother… and… a mentor of sorts…” I can’t even finish my thought. It’s time to pivot. I labor to remember a follow-up question. “And you? Grady mentioned you two work together?”
“Well, I’ve worked with him on a number of gigs,” he says. “Although I have to admit, when I first met Terry, I didn’t really like him. He was very pushy―handsy even. It just wasn’t cool.”
Handsy? What does he mean by handsy?
“But once we cleared a few contracts, and developed a routine,” Grady continues, “I realized he’s actually not a bad guy. In fact, he’s pretty funny. Like, the other day…”
And just like that, Grady launches into a full-on monologue. I’m still stuck on the remark. Handsy? Terry? He’s not that type of guy.
While I try to imagine what Grady meant, he is fully convinced we’re having a conversation based on the way I nod every two or three sentences. Sometimes, I nod before I should, but he doesn’t notice. He just keeps on talking. When the waiter finally arrives, I’m the first to order, if only to break Grady’s momentum.
“I’ll have the gyro with fries and a Nectarious to drink, please.”
As Grady scans the menu, his eyes dart fast and wild—practically sparkling when he finds what he wants.
“I’ll have a large order of the summer garden salad.”
A Salad? Seriously?
“What kind of dressing would you like with that?” the waiter asks.
Grady’s eyes widen, his brow line drops, and he gently shakes his head as if he’s been asked the dumbest question in the world. I don’t know what was so daft about the inquiry, but now he is casting that bewildered expression my way to see if I registered the stupidity of what just happened.
When the waiter turns to me, his eyes searching for clues as to what he did wrong, I’m at a loss for words, shrugging my shoulders.
“Um…” Grady starts. A poorly suppressed giggle escapes from his mouth. “No dressing.” His tone shifts to endearing, “but I’ll take a refill on the water. Thanks.”
As the waiter leaves, everything in me wants to grab him by the arm and say, “I’m just as lost as you are,” but I divert my attention to Grady instead. This is the first time he has stopped talking since the monologue began. I seize the opportunity to tell him about myself.
While I unpack the story of what got me into graphic design, he’s back to blinking again. It’s so distracting I struggle to make use of the opportunity I’ve been waiting for and I feel like I’ve been enlisted to push a boulder up a hill. Then there is the voice. Every single time he chimes in with that voice of his, I’m hit with another wave of disbelief. How does a voice like that belong to a body like his?
When our food arrives, I dig in, but Grady stares at his plate for a moment. He closes his eyes, leans forward, and sniffs the greens in his bowl like some kind of vegetable connoisseur.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
“Oh, it’s great,” he says, too excited. “The salad smells ah-mazing.”
Good. Then hurry up and eat it so this date can be over.
Grady doesn’t bother with any silverware. He grabs a leaf out of the bowl and tosses it to his mouth like it’s a potato chip. The trajectory comes up short, and the leaf lands on his bottom lip. Without missing a beat, he puckers and pulls his lips so that the dangling foliage twists, crumples, and goes into his mouth, one inch at a time.
Next, he picks up a tomato and pops it into his mouth. Perfect landing. He chomps on it with his mouth partially open. The broken, wet chunks of tomato look like they’re getting tossed around in a front-load washer. Gross! When he finally swallows the mush, I am overtaken with gratitude.
Because I see where this is going―he still has a lot of lettuce and tomatoes to get through―I put down my gyro and wave to the waiter so that he can box my food. I’ll enjoy it more when my appetite returns.
After Grady devours his salad the waiter returns to take our dessert orders.
I decline.
Grady takes note of my decision and flashes a coy smile my way as if he’s deciphered what my decision implies. He starts doing that thing again, locking eyes with me as though we have an inside joke, which prompts the waiter, once more, to turn to me for answers. I sip my ale to disengage from both of them. He turns back to the waiter and says in a suddenly posh English accent, “The selection we’re interested in isn’t. On. The menu.” He ends the statement with a wink in my direction. I nearly spit out my drink.
Come again? Has this guy lost his ever-loving mind?
The waiter walks off, probably counting the minutes until we’re out of here, much like I am.
“Welp,” I say much louder than I intend to, “I had a great time Grady, but I have work to finish up at home, and a consultation just popped up on my calendar—y’know, the life of a freelancer?”
Unfazed by my statement, Grady’s eyes meet mine, and a sly grin creeps across his face. The unbridled blinking has stopped. I notice his nostrils flare as he draws in a deep breath and then exhales. The whole thing seems so primal, like he’s checking the air for pheromones.
Did he hear me? Is he listening?
I can’t help but stare at his eyes, mouth and nose while he takes in a few more breaths. It isn’t long before I’m emulating his behavior, too, breathing in sync with him. Funny enough, the synchronized breathing makes me feel relaxed and I see him differently. He’s no longer annoying or androgynous. All I see is a virile man with passion in his eyes. The flickers of light dancing in his irises draw me in. That rush to leave? It’s gone.
“Work certainly is important,” Grady says in a voice that’s suddenly deep and soothing. “Let me walk you to your car.”
How did his voice get so deep? So smooth…
Grady stands and hurries to my side. He takes my hand to help me out of my seat but doesn’t really step back as I rise to my feet. I’m mere inches from his face when I stand, catching that scent again. That’s definitely Sage… and something else. I’m still locked into the shimmer and flicker of light in his eyes. And that aroma? It makes me want to pounce on him, kiss him passionately, mount him like a…
What the hell?
I catch myself. How did I go from zero to sixty in less than two seconds, from thinking he’s weird to feeling like I could throw him onto this table?
The realization of what’s happening snaps me out of the trance―a trance I now recognize as having started with our very first hug.
Annoyed, I rummage around my thoughts to find the right words to say in a moment like this.
Come on… Come on… What is it?
Then it hits me. I draw close to Grady’s ear and whisper, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”
A puff of smoke takes Grady’s place, and a tiny animal appears at my feet.
A freakin’ rabbit.
Damn you, Terry!
I grab the cute little furball and shove him into my purse before he gets frightened and takes off. Then, I rummage through the inside pocket of my bag, pull out cash to cover the bill, and dash out of the restaurant to the sound of clapping.
Apparently, I’m the best magician in town.
Once in the car, I toss my purse onto the passenger seat and Bunny Boy Grady hops out. I pull out my phone to text that flaming son-of-a-witch Terry.
Screw you, Terry! A rabbit?! Really?!
Terry responds with an animated image of a baby laughing uncontrollably.
T: Better than a frog, lol. So you kissed him, eh?
M: What? No, I didn’t!
T: Well, I set the spell to break the instant you both kiss, soooo… ROFL!
M: How cute, but I caught on to your stupid trick before that happened and countered your spell with a veritas revelare incantation.
T: Interesting. Which one did you use?
M: The one from Sir Walter Scott.
T: Ah. Well played! You’re getting good at this. I guess we’re even now. Truce?
I leave his message unanswered.
