Hot Date

I wore my silky white chemise thinking I'd feel sophisticated. But as the drops of sweat trickle down, I'm transforming into a wet T-shirt contestant. And to make matters worse, my girls are wearing their high beams today.

Earlier, I could hide behind my strategically placed Chez Pierre menu, but the server has taken that away.

There is a silver lining. Jesse probably assumes my sweat crisis is due to the sizzling heatwave, instead of the stress of finally having a first date with my crush.

That's crush with a capital C.

Jesse sits across from me, his gaze locked into my above-the-chin zone, as we both pretend the waterfall flowing down my chest is not happening.

"You're really hot, Callie," says the man who I have marked as my husband-to-be.

A bit forward for a first date, a little high school-ish, but my heart races.

"Thank you," I stammer.

He smiles awkwardly. "I meant, you know, the weather...you look a bit peaked.."

I laugh. "Oh, I know. I was just kidding!" But I feel my face flush.

"Are you okay? You're very red. Do you want me to ask for a table inside?"

"No, no, it's just sunburn," I lie. "Forgot the sunscreen yesterday."

His ice-blue eyes crinkle at the corners, reminding me of those enormous blue-tinted icebergs you see gliding past the Canadian coast. I would happily climb onto one right now.

He, of course, looks as cool as a cucumber in the air-conditioned produce aisle—the kind where little jets send refreshing mist over the leafy greens just as you stroll past.

Jesse is all chill, all confidence, all the time. I've never seen him appear flustered, let alone any dampness on his fresh-pressed shirts, even when he's giving executive presentations to the big cheeses upstairs.

The waiter brings us our drinks. I ordered a Negroni cocktail. I have never had one before, but I Googled popular overseas drinks so I would look effortlessly European.

Yes, I am just that damned sophisticated.

The waiter sets our drinks on the table and walks away. I pick mine up, the ice tinkling in the glass, and offer a toast.

"To a lovely summer evening," I say, tasting salt as sweat trickles into my mouth.

"To loveliness," Jesse says, smiling meaningfully into my eyes and clinking his glass against mine.

My heart melts.

My clear, bright-red Negroni looks as inviting as ice-cold Kool-Aid when you were a kid on summer break. I take a gulp and gag, choking as I realize too late that the cocktail is three kinds of strong alcohol--no mixer--and I am a gal more used to pineapple juice and whipped cream and little umbrellas in my drinks.

The liquor burns going down my throat, throwing me into a coughing fit as Jesse looks on in horror, his glass half raised to his lips.

"Are you okay?" he asks, not for the first time this evening.

I fan my hand furiously beside my neck, as if I can cool down the burn in my throat from the outside in. I grab my water glass. I don't notice the coaster is stuck to the bottom from condensation until it drops. I valiantly try to catch it, but my glass tips, spilling ice water into my lap--and all over ma chemise.

I yelp, and the whole restaurant turns to stare. I put the glass down and quickly cross my arms over my chest.

This can't possibly get any worse.

But Cruel Fate says, "Hold my beer."

Jesse gives a wan smile. "Do you want to...get out of here?" he asks, cocking his head towards the exit sign.

My heart sinks. I've embarrassed him. He's ending the date early.

"But we've already ordered," I protest, hoping there might be a second chance to salvage this.

"We can take it to go," he assures me. He comes around to my side of table and places his casual white dinner jacket over my shoulders, hiding my faux pas. It smells just like I've always imagined it would--soap, green grass, a hint of summer barbecues at the lake house. The white cotton is surprisingly cool.

Jesse pulls back my chair and leads me to the lobby, confirming there will be no more discussion about staying. He goes and speaks to the server, who brings out two large brown paper bags.

Two bags instead of one.

So he plans to drop me off at my apartment with my meal in one bag, and take his own home with him.

My heart sinks. He is not the man I thought he was.

As the server rings up Jesse's credit card, Jesse says something and they both laugh, no doubt at me. I can just imagine what Jesse is saying, "You can dress her up, but you can't take her out!"

Outside, Jesse hands his ticket to the valet. As we wait for his car to be brought around, he says to me, "Next stop, your place."

He opens the car door for me--always the so-called gentleman--and I climb in. His leather seat is getting wet, but serves him right.

It suddenly dawns on me that I'm going to have to see him at work on Monday.

I vow to find another job before the weekend is over.

He makes awkward small talk on the way to my place. Which means talking about the weather of course. He drones on about his hot childhood summers spent on the European continent, cooling off by sneaking into the clubhouse pool after hours.

He pulls into my parking space. "There you go," he smiles at me. "I'll see you...soon?" Right. His version of, "I'll call you."

He's no doubt going to come around to my side to open my door for me, but I save him the trouble. I shrug his jacket off my shoulders and bolt, scurrying up the steps and through the wide front door of the old Victorian. I unlock my apartment the ground floor and storm in, too angry to even ugly-cry.

My stomach growls, and I realize I forgot my dinner in the car. No worry, I would choke on every bite of it, reliving the horrible evening. I order a burger and fries Happy Meal from Door Dash.

I peel off my soaked chemise and take a quick, steamy shower to wash off the make-up and the hair spray. I wrap my head up in a towel and I don my favourite jean shorts and a cool lime green tank top.

The door bell is ringing as I head back to the living room. Perfect timing. I grab my purse to tip the delivery driver, eager to pour myself an icy cold coke and settle down to an evening of chick flicks.

I swing open the door, and I'm not sure whose eyes pop open wider--mine or Jesse's.

"Yes?" I ask, trying to figure out what he's doing here. I distinctly recall leaving his jacket in the car, so it can't be that.

Jesse stammers, for seemingly unsure of himself of himself. "I...I was just wondering if you're ready."

He glances at my new ensemble. "I see you've changed out of your wet clothes."

Just then, my order arrives. The driver sprints from the car and hands me my dinner, shouts out a thank you and sprints away.

Jesse glances at my Happy Meal bag, then at me.

I shrug, "I was hungry."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I know it's getting late for dinner, isn't it." He glances at the bag. "Did you want to bring that with you, or eat it on the way?"

"On the way...where?"

He stares at me in confusion, then it dawns on him.

"Oh, you didn't think that...I mean, I thought you were just going in to get changed, and then we'd take the food to that park by the beach, find a picnic table..."

For once, I see Jesse has broken a sweat.

"Well, of course!" I exclaim. "That's exactly what I thought we were doing. I just wasn't sure where. I was just getting my shoes on, that's all."

I quickly slip into my sandals, my purse in one hand and my Happy Meal in the other, and head towards his car.

I can barely believe it. Here Jesse has been waiting outside for me for a good half hour, in the sweltering heat. As he opens the door for me I feel a furnace-like blast erupt from the car's interior. I realize the food from the restaurant is probably still hot.

Just as I start to get in, Jesse clears his throat, catching my attention. I turn. He points to his head.

The towel.

I still have the towel wrapped around my head.

"What? It's a beach towel," I challenge him, holding up my purse and meal. "I only have two hands to carry things with, you know?"

He smiles and winks at me.

And so, after a quick stop at his place so that he can change clothes himself--while I admire his comfortable home filled with the books, photos and little knickknacks that touch my heart--we finally land at the park.

I hand my Happy Meal to a dad and his little boy as we stroll on past to select a picnic table near the water. Then I very ceremoniously and with dignity unwrap my towel and daintily cover the bench with it before sitting down.

Jesse opens one of the brown paper bags, but instead of an appetizer his own appetizer and entree, he pulls out a white linen tablecloth, two plates, cutlery, wine glasses, bottled water, and a small bottle of red wine.

I stare at him. "So you really were planning a picnic? You weren't dumping me after the disaster at Chez Pierre?"

He smacks his forehead. "I thought it was obvious, with all the tableware. You didn't see the server packing it all up?"

"I guess I wasn't paying attention," I admit. "I was busy feeling sorry for myself."

"Do you really think I would just take you home? I've been wanting a date with you for ages, Callie."

My heart soars. I can't help grinning in spite of myself.

A cool breeze drifts in from the water, lifting my damp, uncombed tresses. A breath of relief from the smothering heat.

"I was trying so hard to impress you," I confess. "To be so effortlessly European, just like you are. But I guess I'm just a pina colada and Happy Meal girl at heart."

He glances up from serving the filet mignon with mushrooms and shrimp scampi onto our paper plates. "European? What do you mean?"

"Well, I knew you lived all over Europe and you sounded so, uh, wealthy..."

He bursts out laughing as he hands me my plate.

"No, not rich. At least not financially. Rich in experiences, maybe. I was just an Army brat. That's why I lived all over Europe."

"But even tonight you talked about swimming at the country club after hours."

He laughs harder. "Yes, but we weren't members! Why do you think we had to break in?"

I take a bite of my filet, marveling at the rich flavor.

"I think I actually like the sweaty, choking, pineapple-juice-and-little-umbrellas version of you better than the Chez Pierre girl," Jess says. "In fact, I think I'm more of a beer and Happy Meal type of guy myself. I was just trying to impress you, with the fancy French restaurant and all."

He takes a bite of his steak. Our eyes meet. "But oh, yeah, I could get used to this kind of eating too."

"So what's the most important thing you want in a relationship?" I ask, figuring everything is all out on the table now.

He looks at me seriously, one eyebrow cocked. "Transparency. Definitely transparency."

I playfully punch in the shoulder.

And that is how I ended up on the beach eating fine French cuisine with matted hair and no make-up, watching the sun set and the moon rise as the blazing heat simmered down, with the man I had marked as my future husband.

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