Question: What happened when you ruminated about a date the whole fucking week?

Answer: When you went to get dressed for it, you got really fucking nervous and completely over thought it.

I tore apart my bedroom, trying on everything I owned that was suitable for a night out. And trust me, I owned plenty of "night out" clothes: miniskirts, little black dresses, wrap dresses, fifties-looking dresses, slinky dresses, dresses with illegal v-necks cut down in the front, dresses cut so low in the back that you can almost see the top of my ass, high necked, long-sleeve dresses that hugged every curve, sequined dresses, babydoll dresses, and one black pair of pants that actually fit.

So, I had nothing to wear.

I did, however, have fabulous shoes. They were, as Oprah says, "ten minute only" shoes, meaning you could only actually walk for ten minutes in them, but I was used to wearing high heels, so I didn't think it would be a problem. They had one teeny strap over the toes, and one around the ankles, and were otherwise held on by luck.

Desperate, I called Sara, hoping that her Macy's experience would help. "I've got a date with my neighbor, who is straight out of a book that I would write, and I don't know what to wear," I panted out in a rush, pacing in my messy bedroom, wearing black lace panties and a matching bra.

"Slow down," she ordered. "This is tamale guy?"

"Yeah."

"And he apologized?"

"Yeah."

"He's worth your time?"

I paused. "I think so. He works crazy hours. I don't know what he does, some sort of advertising or something. He's always bringing samples from clients. But the thing is, he goes out of his way to come see me every day, even when it's late."

"That's your answer," she said. "A universal truth is if a guy is interested, he'll show you he's interested."

"I think he's interested. He told me as much."

"But mama, you are such a romantic. You haven't dated in so long."

"That's because I swore off real men," I responded. "Book boyfriends are better."

"Don't forget that he's a real, flesh and blood guy. He's no Fabio. Just because he looks good doesn't mean anything unless he treats you well. And working so hard, he might have some issues."

"We all have issues."

"That's true." She paused. "I care about you, mama. Make sure to take good care of yourself."

"I do."

"I know. Okay, so then have fun and let me know how it went."

"Wait, what do I wear?"

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know. He said somewhere nice."

"So go with classic and elegant. Sparkly top and pencil skirt."

"Shit, you're right. You're the best. Love ya."

I hung up, pulled out a sequined tank top that was between blush pink and bronze colored, a black pencil skirt, and my little strappy black heels. With my hair down around my shoulders and my lip gloss on, I grabbed my clutch purse. Then, leaving my room a torn-up mess, I closed my door, locked it, and headed over to Jake's.

He answered the door, wearing a charcoal gray, long-sleeve, button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his gorgeous forearms, and black slacks. He smelled like he just got out of the shower, and his hair was damp and wavy. He held a coat over his shoulder and stepped out, locking his door.

"Ready?" I asked.

"No," he answered.

"No?"

"I don't want to go out anymore," he said, stopping, looking at me.

"But why not?" I asked, feeling a little indignant, having put all this work into what I was wearing.

"Because you look so gorgeous, I, shit, I don't want to, well, we better go or we won't leave," he stuttered out.

He grabbed my hand and led me to his car, a new black BMW, holding the door for me as I sat my booty in the leather seat and slid my legs around, the only way to get in a car in a pencil skirt. Opening his door, he got in, started his car, and took off.

"What kind of music do you like?" he asked.

"Dance, R&B, hip hop."

He turned on the radio and it was set to my favorite station. "Guess we have the same taste."

"Where are we headed?"

"The Four Seasons Biltmore. I figured that we could have drinks in the lounge and then have dinner by the ocean." The Four Seasons was located by the beach in one of the most exclusive parts of Santa Barbara, almost in Montecito, near where Oprah lives. You could cross the road and be at the beach, and one of the restaurants had ocean views and an outdoor heated patio. A thrill coursed through me. This was special.

"You know Jake, I would go anywhere, but I'm so glad you picked the Biltmore. I've only been there once and I always wanted to go back."

After a short drive, we pulled up to the valet parking, and the attendant helped me out. Jake handed over his keys, then came over to me and gave me his arm like a gentleman.

Like everything in Santa Barbara, the hotel was in a Spanish style, with a red tile roof and white stucco walls, and black iron accents. The hotel had obviously been redone and we walked into the chic bar, and sat down at a little table that overlooked the ocean. Because it was getting near the shortest days of the year, the sun started to set earlier and earlier. Jake ordered a beer and I ordered a margarita on the rocks, which were served with a flourish.

"So what do you do for fun?" I asked, sipping my margarita, and aiming for daintiness.

He laughed. "I don't."

Huh?

"What do you mean you don't?"

"For the past eleven years, I have worked seventy to eighty hour weeks every week," he explained, "sometimes more. I work out. I go to work. I come home and crash. That's it."

"That's no way to live," I blurted. He really was a workaholic.

He looked a little regretful. "When I was young, my family didn't have very much money. I mean, I grew up using ketchup instead of spaghetti sauce on pasta." I cringed. "My mom divorced my dad when I was a teenager, saying that she deserved better than my dad, who worked all the time, and she left me—" he trailed off. "Sorry, this is kind of heavy. I guess where I'm going with this is that when I was young, all I did was draw. I wanted to be an artist. But my dad, knowing how hard it is to make a living, pushed me into doing something more. And I guess that's it. I work all the time now."

"Your dad didn't support you being an artist?"

"No." He didn't elaborate.

Well, if he didn't have any family support, no wonder he was in advertising. That could be creative and artistic—another outlet for it.

"But you like drawing."

"I can't not do it," he answered. "So I take classes when I can. Photography. Painting. Drawing."

"What did you think of the life drawing class?"

He looked at me with a sexy stare that made my lady bits quiver. "It had a great model." I smiled at him. He continued in a low voice, "Actually, I was wondering what it felt like to be up there, naked, with everyone looking at you, drawing you?"

"It feels a little disembodied. Like I know that all these art students are objectifying me, making my body into lines on a page."

"I didn't objectify you," he said, intently. "I knew it was you, Lucy, my beautiful neighbor, the whole time."

I reddened a little bit. "So with all this work, do you have time to see anyone?"

He barked out a rueful laugh and shook his head. "I'm so shitty at relationships. That's not the thing to tell you on a date, but I haven't been with anyone serious in a long time." But then he took my hand across the table. "Listen, Lucy. I'm always at the office. I know it's unhealthy. But I want to see you. I want to get to know you. Will you give me a chance?"

I nodded. Yes, I could give him a chance. He was trying. He was so sweet and I felt so compelled to be with him. When I wasn't around him, I was wondering what he was doing. I don't know if that was healthy or unhealthy, but it was what was happening.

I also knew that I wanted to be in bed with him by the end of the night.

As we drank our drinks, we watched the sun go down into the horizon across the ocean, the sunset turning the sky a brilliant shade of pink, fading to purple, fading to gray, the water gray-blue and dark. Then we went to the heated outdoor patio and had dinner at their Italian restaurant.

All throughout dinner, all I could think about was this animated, lovely, man with me. He wasn't so slick. Yes, he was beautiful, but there was something almost sad and wistful underneath. Someone who had been missing out on life. Someone who needed a little care and attention.

The other thing that I kept doing was watching him. Watching his athletic frame move in his chair and the elegant way he held his silverware. And feeling his eyes on me, studying me. Asking me questions and waiting for the answers. Studying the way his neck moved gracefully, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed. The little glimpses of his chest that I got from the unbuttoned neck of his shirt.

Oh, yes, desire had been stirring in me for a long time.

He had been pretty hands-off of me the whole evening, other than giving me his arm.

But now, towards the end of dinner, as we were sharing tiramisu, he reached over and took my hand again.

"Let's go back."

"Yes." I agreed. "Now."