Absolutely

The skin puckers as the wizened technician cinches a strap around the arm. Tracy tries to avert looking at the needle being inserted. The metal is endless sliding under her skin.

Two adhesive strips are affixed. “Now squeeze,” the woman with a nimbus of white hair instructs. “Not too tight.” She pats Tracy’s shoulder.

Tracy squeezes the rubber ball. Viscous blood, a dark shade of maroon travels through the tube into a collection bag. She closes her eyes. As she begins to relax, the woman’s voice punctures the calm.

“Your boyfriend is lucky. O negative blood only takes O negative.”

Tracy tries to correct the woman. “He’s not her boyfriend.” It was their first date.

“Imagine the odds…” the woman muses.

As the technician drones on about blood statistics, Tracy wonders if this lucky man will live. They had agreed to meet only a week ago.

Tracy Sanders abhors two things: fish and blind dates. Yet under the vise-like persistence of her coworker, she concedes. “Just once.”

“I know him.” The coworker whines.

Tracy gives her a dubious look.

“A friend of a friend.” The coworker shrugs.

Tracy rolls her eyes, “That’s reassuring.”

She arrives at the restaurant. Heads turn. Six feet tall, Tracy has sepia-toned skin, long braids, and an athletic body. Mesmerized, the waiter stumbles over himself pulling out a chair.

“Thank you.” She smiles at the man smoothing his bald pate.

“A drink?” He suggests pointing toward the bar.

“Water is fine.”

He steps away from the table stealing another glance.

Tracy sees a man who she is certain just left the set of The Vikings.

He approaches. “Tracy? Hello, Lars.” A distinct accent. His hand envelops hers.

He sits across the table. “Sorry, traffic.” He smiles, exposing perfect, white teeth.

Tracy studies this Norse god with a strong jawline, artic blue eyes, and alabaster skin. His white, blond hair is spiked. “He’s a looker,” she thinks. The stark contrast of their visage and celebrity good looks has garnered glances from the other guests.

The waiter returns. His ebullience now corked seeing Lars. “A drink, sir.” He bites the last word.

Lars nods toward Tracy. “Some wine?”

“No, thank you.”

“What type of merlot do you have?” Lars asks.

“We have Verite Merlot La Muse, Stags’ Leap, and of course the house.” He twists the end of his mustache as if testing the patron’s palate and wallet.

“Stag’s Leap.” Lars smiles at the waiter.

“Of course.” He bows slightly. “A bottle or glass.”

“Just a glass of merlot,” Lars confirms. When the waiter leaves, he looks at Tracy. “Not a drinker?”

“The occasional glass of merlot or Cognac when I’m not driving.”

His ears flush. “Bad first impression?” His lips twist into a wry smile.

“Not really.” She gives him an impish grin. “First impression was actually pretty good.” She bats her eyes in exaggeration. They break into laughter.

“A sense of humor. I like it.” He winks and takes a sip of his wine. He eyes the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”

“Yes. Huge portions. Okay with sharing?” She peers over the card.

“Sure. How does shrimp scampi sound?”

Her face pinches in disapproval. “Anything but fish.”

“Norwegians eat fish.” He laughs and takes another sip. “How about chicken marsala?”

“Perfect. And linguine.”

He nods enthusiastically giving her that winning smile. Tracy wishes she had ordered a glass of merlot.

“What part of Norway?” She pours olive oil onto a plate and dips a piece of crusty, Italian bread.

“Tromso. Northern Lights, fish, and brutal winters.” He hovers his bread over the olive oil, awaiting permission.

“Of course. Please,” she says pushing the plate a bit closer.

“And you? From California?” He rips another piece of bread and dips it.

“Born and raised.” She tosses her braids. “Surfing, beaches, and no winters.” She gives him a conspiratorial wink and dips her bread.

There is a comfortable familiarity as they banter. No airs. Nothing to prove.

The waiter returns with a large skillet. The marsala is bubbling around the golden chicken and mushrooms. A young acolyte stands behind the waiter thrusting an enormous bowl of linguine as the waiter prongs the noodles onto their plates. He places the chicken onto the bed of pasta and ladles the sauce and mushrooms. “Another glass of merlot, sir?”

“No, thank you.” Lars places his hand over his glass.

“Enjoy your meal.” The waiter bows slightly again to Lars. He turns toward Tracy, squints one eye, and pivots.

“Hmmm.” Tracy’s eyebrow cocks. “What was that about.” Her eyes follow the waiter.

“The waiter?” Lars asks slicing a piece of chicken.

“Yes. He just gave me the stink eye.” She twirls the linguine, pierces a piece of chicken, and places it into her mouth. “Mmm, good stuff.”

“He’s upset with your selection of man.” Lars shrugs his huge shoulders, throws back the last bit of merlot, and dabs his mouth with a napkin. “He thinks you could do better.”

She says coquettishly, “I think I’ve done pretty good.”

Between bites and laugher, they are enjoying the night. She likes him. Despite his dashing looks, he’s not self-absorbed. Their conversation is easy.

The waiter returns with a pitcher of ice water and fills their glasses. “Care to see the dessert cart? Coffee? Aperitif?” He’s holding a towel over his arm as he passes the empty plates to the young man behind him.

Lars points his hand, “Coffee and we’ll split the cheesecake?”

“Sounds delicious.” Tracy lifts the napkin from her lap. “I take my coffee with cream, please. Excuse me, Lars, I need to use the restroom.” The younger waiter points in the direction.

As she meanders around tables, Tracy catches a man staring at her. Her skin prickles. There is something feral in his eyes. He is fleshy, with dark, pomade hair. She spotted him staring at them earlier but dismissed it. His eyes are tracking her. He snarls. “Pig.”

She freezes. “Excuse me?”

They exchange shark-eyed stares. His serpentine tongue flicks side to side. He breaks, averting his gaze. “All paper bullies fold,” she thinks. Tracy tosses her braids and steps inside the restroom. When she steps out, he is no longer there.

The coffee, cheesecake, and Lars await her return. She pours the cream, stirs, and sips the coffee. Her fork is poised to puncture the cheesecake as Lars waits. She puts her fork down. “There’s a real creepy guy who’s been eyeing us all night.”

Lars cranes his head. “Is he still looking?”

“No. But he is creepy with a capital C.” She sneaks a glance. “Just a bad vibe.” Tracy shakes her shoulders warding off the wicked. She points toward the cheesecake. “You first.”

He chuckles. “If you insist.” Lars forks a large wedge and devours it. He dabs at his mouth again and laughs. “It’s fantastic to be with someone who is not afraid of food.”

“Not me,” she laughs and lifts a large piece. As the fork travels to her mouth, it stops midway. She puts it down. “He’s staring again.” She shudders.

Without turning his head, Lars looks into her eyes. “Where is he, Tracy?”

She juts her chin. “Over by the bar.”

The chair scrapes as he pushes back. He lays his napkin on the table and turns toward the bar.

As Lars makes his way toward the man, Tracy imagines that with a sledgehammer, he could pass for Thor. Her eyes track him as he approaches the weaselly man. When Lars leans in, the man’s eyes widened, beefy hands going up in surrender. Wasting no time, he lifts off the stool and walks out the door.

“Now, let’s get back to that cheesecake.” Lars grins.

“Thank you.” With a rush of relief, she reaches across the table and grabs his hand.

He returns the squeeze. “He was kind of wormy.” He laughs, picks up a bite of cheesecake, and offers it to Tracy.

To her own amazement, she grabs it with her teeth and giggles. She has not had this much fun and excitement on a first date. Maybe any date. They finish the meal and Lars grabs the check. “My treat. It’s been such a pleasure, Tracy.” He stands and pulls out her chair.

She doesn’t want the magic to end. “I have a great idea.” She takes his hand. “Let’s take my car and I’ll show you my favorite beach spot.”

“Is this a seduction?” He feigns horror.

“Didn’t you read your horoscope today? Just a walk on the beach.” A mischievous smile spreads.

Her tomato red, Tesla 3 is parked out front. “I’ll need a crowbar,” Lars bellows squeezing into the passenger side.

“It’s roomy.”

He raises a dubious eyebrow.

“Okay. It’s roomy, enough.”

They drive along the Pacific Coast Highway, catching every green light. “Geez, that’s a first. You must be a lucky charm.” She beams.

“I am.” He smiles.

With the Pacific Ocean on their left, she heads toward Huntington State Beach. Lars leans over and turns on the radio. Journey is blasting, Anyway You Want It, and they begin to sing along.

A white light swallows her vehicle whole. The Tesla jerks left and spins as if in a centrifuge. She fights her instinct and steers into the direction of the spin. The vehicle yaws and impacts a cement wall. Side over side, the car flips down an embankment and stops at the shoreline. The airbags deploy. The Tesla teeters like a seesaw with Tracy’s side perched high above the beach. She aches but can twist her body as she extricates herself. Through the billowing airbags, she searches below. “Lars?”

Swirling beacons of red and blue lights illuminate as the ambulance speeds down the highway. Tracy and Lars lay opposite each other. The siren’s wail disturbs the night. “Lars?” She touches his hand. It is icy cold. His face is cadaverous.

Doors open wide. Their respective gurneys roll into the emergency room. She is pummeled with questions as they roll her along. “Lars?” Anxiety surges each time she calls his name.

“Miss.” The doctor is so close she can see his stubble. “You’ve been in an accident. What is your name?”

“Tracy Sanders.”

“And your friend?” He’s still running alongside her gurney.

“Lars.” Tracy realizes she doesn’t know his last name. “How is he?”

“Internal bleeding. Ruptured spleen. Getting his blood type.” The doctor points at the orderly to turn into a side room. He kicks down the brakes and begins to pull, twist, and prod her like a turkey.

“I’m fine.” Her eyes water. “Please take care of Lars.”

“He’s in good hands, Ms. Sanders.” He steps back to confer with a nurse.

The woman says, “He needs O negative.”

“I’m O negative.” She blurts.

The doctor looks. “Willing to give blood?”

Tracy nods.

“Prep her,” he orders.

She stands bedside holding his hand. It is cold but not icy. “Exsanguination without a drop of blood.” Tracy shivers and squeezes his hand. His eyes flutter. “Hey,” she whispers. A tear rolls down her face.

“Hey,” his voice scratchy. “That was one hell of a car ride.” He tries to laugh but winces.

A policeman knocks on the door. “Ms…” he looks down at a note. “Sanders. I’m Officer Stevenson.” He looks at Lars. “Guess you were the passenger.” He removes his hat and scratches his head. “We have a witness. A truck clipped you.” He reenacts with his hands. “The truck left but the witness got the plate. We’ve already been out to question him. He confessed.”

“Confessed?” Her confusion is apparent.

“It seems he saw you at Un Bacio. Said he didn’t like the look of you together. Not sure if the charge is road rage, hate crime, or both. Wanted to stop by and let you know.” He put his hat back on and tipped it. “We’ll be in touch.”

Lars and Tracy exchange looks. A grin spreads across his face. “So, what do you have planned for our second date?”