Dirty by Megan Hart Page B

got a headache.” The lie tripped easily off my tongue. “You two were looking pretty cozy by the bar, so I just snuck out.”
    She seemed satisfied with that answer, then prattled on about her night with Wayne. The cologne he wore. The brand of shampoo he preferred. The way he liked his eggs. She stopped midsentence to stare at me.
    “What?”
    I’d been transfixed by her commentary, but now I finished pouring my coffee. “Nothing.”
    I didn’t want to tell her I envied her. I wasn’t sure I did. I’d been in love before, with disastrous results.
    “Did something happen at The Blue Swan?”
    I shook my head. “No. Should it have?”
    “Hell, yeah.” Marcy tossed her blond hair over one shoulder. “It should have. Definitely. But…nothing? We lost you after you went to get the drinks. Thought maybe someone swept you away.”
    “Oh.” My laugh sounded forced and lame. “Nothing like that, I’m afraid.”
    She didn’t look convinced, but I didn’t give her any more of the story.
     
    Dan didn’t wait to call me the way I had.
    “Hello, Miss Kavanagh. Daniel Stewart calling.”
    “Yes, Mr. Stewart. How can I help you?”
    “I read a good review about the film showing at the Allen Theater this weekend. I’d like to make an appointment with you to see it.”
    “An appointment?” He’d caught me washing dishes left over from breakfast. I cradled the phone against my shoulder while I swirled a soapy sponge over my bowl and rinsed it.
    “Yes. I believe you said you didn’t go on dates.”
    “I said I didn’t date. Not that I didn’t go on dates.”
    “Ah. Fine line, there.”
    I imagined him running a hand through his hair, maybe wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He’d have a leather couch. Big-screen television set. Plants a housekeeper watered and plucked the dead leaves from.
    I finished with my dishes and set the kettle on to boil water for tea. “I go on an occasional date.”
    That wasn’t quite true. I hadn’t been on a date in a long time. Longer than I’d forgone sex, as a matter of fact.
    “You’re changing your story on me, Elle. That’s not fair.”
    “Life’s not fair.” I wiped off my table and replaced the napkin holder in the center.
    “Elle.” His voice reached through the phone and stroked me from head to foot. I closed my eyes. “You want to go with me to the movies.”
    I leaned against my counter, an arm folded across my stomach to support the one holding the phone. I thought for a moment. “Yes. I do.”
    “Good,” he said, as though that settled things. And it did.
    He took me to an arty, independent film with subtitles, the plot of which I had difficulty untangling but enjoyed anyway for its lush visuals. We had dessert in the theater’s attached coffee shop, where he challenged me to a game of Scrabble in which he spelled words like “cleft” and “slick” for a triple word score. We traded limericks, and he seemed impressed I knew so many. We laughed so loudly we turned heads, and I didn’t even care. He didn’t touch me, though I wanted him to.
    He invited me back to his apartment for drinks. I agreed. I wanted to see the place where he lived. I wanted to see his bed.
    He served me Guinness in a pint glass and didn’t insist on using coasters, though his furniture looked new enough to require them. He settled down beside me on his leather couch as easily as though we’d spent months together instead of hours, and he asked me questions about the movie as if he cared about the answers.
    I’m not completely socially incompetent. I do have to know how to interact with clients, give presentations, make appointments, shake hands and make small talk. I can do those things sufficiently, if not with ease. If anything, I would imagine people would describe me as aloof, taking my silence at times for standoffishness rather than awkwardness. I’m still the girl who sat in the front of the class, ready to answer all the teacher’s questions. I just lost most of