Boyfriend by the Book: A feel good romantic comedy Read online

  “Catch you later, Jodi,” Monique said. “Enjoy your latte.”

  “This is childish of you. You know that, right?”

  “You’ll thank us later,” Monique promised. “Think Catherine," she whispered as she squeezed my shoulder in a parting gesture. She paused to wave goodbye to me as she passed the chair where Heathcliff guy sat. A not-so-subtle way of telling him I’d be alone now.

  So now what? I couldn’t just sit here, not drinking my five dollar latte—but I couldn’t just bolt for the door. For one thing, I’d never make it past Kristen, now patrolling the book store aisle as she supervised the new trainees. And Monique had paused on the sidewalk, peering back at me through the store window with a knowing look. So I was trapped.

  Make a phone call. If you’re on the phone, they can’t expect you to strike up a conversation with anyone. I dug through my tote bag, looking for my cell amid the various notebooks, planners, and other work-related paraphernalia. I still hadn’t located it when Heathcliff guy suddenly closed his book and got up from his chair. Was he leaving? For a moment, it looked as if I wouldn’t need an excuse after all. I held my breath, waiting for him to turn towards the exit. But he didn’t. He turned and came directly towards me!

  Rats. There was no way to avoid eye contact as he paused in front of the sofa my friends had recently vacated. Standing there in the pose of a marble statue carved in exquisite detail. “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “Oh, um—” My excuse that I had to make a business call died at this moment, due to Kristen's stare locked on me. As if she’d read my mind, or maybe just my lips, as I prepared to turn him down. I held back a sigh, forcing a smile in place. “Be my guest,” I told him.

  He sat on the cushion beside me, slightly closer than I would have liked. “I’ve never been here before," he said. "This place has a better art history section than most of the shops I visit, but the poetry volumes are a little overpriced.”

  Poetry. Hmmm—I wondered if my friends knew about that connection as well. Deciding to go along with it, I told him, “I’ve been reading some of Byron’s poetry lately. A friend loaned me their copy.”

  “Byron was a genius,” he told me, solemnly. “All those tortured emotions gave way to such profound imagery, don’t you think?”

  I nodded, afraid I might laugh if I spoke. He was just being so intense about it. His stare seemed to bore right through me, leaving me a little uncomfortable.

  “Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To look for more poetry? Because I know a secondhand shop that has some great selections, if you’re looking for something out of the ordinary. Extraordinary passion, I mean.”

  “My friend Kristen works here,” I said, steering the conversation away from poetry, since I wasn’t that big on it — and the subject of passion, since we were practically strangers. “I was meeting her for coffee, but she had to start her work shift. And my other friend had another appointment to keep.”

  “I only drink coffee at Urban Mood. Do you know it?”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell,” I admitted.

  “Most people think it’s eclectic,” he said, “but I think of it as atmospheric. It has bean bag chairs instead of tables. There’s a zone that’s for meditating and a room that’s just for sitting in the dark. It’s an intense experience.”

  That sounded really creepy—sitting in the dark with a bunch of strangers. I couldn’t say that out loud, though. “Sounds unique.”

  Catherine Earnshaw would probably think sitting in the dark was uncouth, but that was beside the point. Passionate people in the modern day apparently embraced it.

  “Believe me, it is.” He leaned back, crossing his arms against his broad chest. “So what’s your name?” he asked. "Your friend didn't mention it before. We met earlier. She was helping me find a book about Van Gogh's work."

  “Jodi,” I said. “Jodi Nichols.”

  He nodded. “Jodi. Nice. Is it short for anything?”

  “Nope, that’s it.” I tried to keep my tone friendly, despite wishing I was somewhere else.

  It wasn’t his fault he’d gotten the wrong idea about this. Kristen and Monique were the ones to blame for that. At least Monique had given up spying on us through the window. Maybe she really did have to meet her fiancé somewhere. Kristen still watched, though, stationed beside a sales rack another employee was stocking with paperbacks.

  Resigning myself to this encounter, I forced a pleasant smile to my face. “Is art a hobby for you?” I asked him. The book he’d purchased, along with his paint spattered jeans, made this seem like a fairly safe bet.

  “Art is my passion.” He leaned in slightly to say this, more people crowding inside the reading zone. “Are you truly an art lover, Jodi?”

  I knew that defining myself as an art lover was stretching it for me, but wasn’t I trying to change some of that? Connecting with my creative and passionate side as part of this whole, stupid find my inner heroine process?

  In a flash of inspiration, I answered, “I’m sort of a novice when it comes to art, but I guess that meaningful art speaks to everyone.”

  “A beautiful thought,” he said. This close to him, it was hard not to notice his solid-looking build and chiseled jaw. My friends weren’t wrong about his physical attributes. If only his stare was a little less intense I might find him attractive — even though he wasn't really my type. “You’re quite insightful for a novice, Jodi.”

  “Thanks,” I said, tucking back a strand of my hair. “And, um, what should I call you?” He hadn’t introduced himself, I realized.

  “Call me Brock,” he said. No last name was mentioned. Maybe that was part of the whole mysterious artist image.

  “Nice to meet you, Brock.” I sipped my coffee, searching for a follow up line. I talked with customers all day long at the hotel, but this was different somehow. Harder. Maybe I did need a little practice in this area of my life. A tiny flame of doubt stirred inside me with the notion my friends might be right about some of this relationship stuff.

  “So what’s your passion, Jodi?”

  “My…? Oh, I work at the Regent Hotel.”

  “And is that also your dream?” he asked.

  “Sort of.” I tried not to smile at the dramatic way he phrased it. He was taking this seriously, so I should try not to break the mood. “My work is pretty exciting,” I told him. “There’s something new and interesting to challenge me every day. So yeah, I guess you could say it’s my dream. Or part of it, anyway. It ... feeds my soul.” I threw that out there, assuming that was something that passionate people like Catherine probably said.

  I haven't read Wuthering Heights that many times. It was definitely showing.

  "And what is it your soul desires from that life?" he asked. He smiled — one that I took for amusement, since that made the most sense, given his words.

  "To be promoted," I said, seriously. "My manager says I have a future in this business, and I'm hoping that I can build on those words to make it a reality." Being a manager, owning my own hotel—those things were far in the future, if possible at all. But no need to get too personal for a one-time meeting in a book store.

  “It’s good to know your dream,” Brock told me. “Even when others try to destroy it with their selfish behavior.” His gaze narrowed for a second, a stormy look invading his features. Then it was gone, his expression totally normal again as he asked how I felt about cubist art. Maybe I imagined that angry expression from a moment ago.

  “I like some of Picasso’s work,” I said. I was really more of an Impressionist painting kind of girl—lily ponds, flower gardens, that kind of thing — but Brock struck me as being into more offbeat examples.

  He showed me the book he’d bought, pointing out his favorite art work among the glossy images representing modern interpretations of Van Gogh's masterpieces. Most of them were so abstract I couldn’t tell if they were meant to be people or objects, or just some random shapes and colors, perhaps. But I tried to find s
omething positive to say about each of them, since he clearly found them impressive.

  Closing the book, Brock told me, “Your friend was right. I’ve sensed a really good vibe between us, Jodi. Would you be interested in meeting again? Maybe for lunch sometime? I know a great Thai food place over on Shipley Street.”

  I hesitated. This was my chance to tell him I wasn’t feeling that same vibe and bring this meeting to a close. But my friends would point out I was being ‘closed minded’ if I turned him down after one conversation. And maybe I was. Maybe just one, simple lunch with a soulful creative type couldn’t hurt. Maybe I would even enjoy it, I thought, smiling at Brock over the rim of my coffee cup. After all, it wasn't every day that a Greek god asks you out.

  ~6~

  My date with Brock was scheduled for Saturday, squeezed between my morning work shift and an afternoon staff meeting at the Regent. He agreed to pick me up at noon, my uniform swapped for a pastel pink sundress and fitted white cardigan as I waited for him in the hotel lobby. Natalia noticed the change from my usual ‘business-only’ look, raising her eyebrows as she joked, “Have a hot date, Jodi?”

  “Yes, actually.” I pretended to miss the shocked expression on her face. “It’s a lunch date. Just a casual one; nothing special.” I wouldn’t even be going out with him if not for the pressure from my friends—but I didn’t feel like sharing that tidbit somehow. Natalia shrugged.

  “Casual can turn into special sometimes. You never know right?”

  I was pretty sure I knew in this case, but didn’t say so. A red sports car had pulled up outside, the owner waving away the valet who came to greet them. It was Brock at the driver’s wheel.

  He was dressed full-on bohemian this time: a white cotton tunic, beat-up jeans, and a plain scarf draped casually around his broad shoulders. He looked scruffy and a little bit rugged, and for a moment, I didn’t regret saying yes to this. Maybe he was growing on me, the way Byron's poetry was.

  The first and last moment I would feel that way before the actual date began.

  The Thai food restaurant was only six blocks from my workplace, a tidy little establishment between a deli and a Laundromat. “So what do you recommend?” I asked, glancing over the menu. “I’ve only eaten Thai food a couple of times, I think.” Most of my dinners out were business-related, and therefore, the kind of places the Regent’s clientele were likely to frequent. Meaning gourmet food, rather than the casual dining I tended to prefer.

  “The curry is their most popular selection,” Brock said, pointing to a series of dishes combining seasoned chicken with bell peppers and bamboo shoots. “It’s pretty standard but a good choice for someone who’s not familiar with the cuisine.”

  “Sounds good.” I ordered the red pepper curry and Brock ordered a rice and noodle dish with shrimp. Then we sat in silence, Brock giving me his uncomfortable stare until I blurted out the first question that came to mind. “Are you working on any paintings right now?”

  “I’m not an artist,” Brock answered. “Just a fan of cubist art.”

  “You are? I guess I just assumed…you know, because of the way you talked about it.” And the fact your jeans are covered in paint splatters. Was that a style now? A throwback to the eighties? Or just his way of seeming unique or hip in his wardrobe choices?

  “I’ve never painted anything,” Brock clarified. “I’m more into physical activities,” he added, rolling up his sleeves to show off massive biceps. I glanced away, mortified. Did he think I would ogle him? The waiter set down our drinks in a well-timed interruption.

  Taking a long sip from his, Brock told me, “That’s how I got my nickname. Brock the Rock. That’s what my friends call me.”

  “Like the movie star,” I said. Receiving a blank stare in return. “You know,” I told him. “The actor and wrestler who goes by ‘The Rock’. He makes a lot of action movies…”

  “Never heard of him.”

  A self-conscious pause followed. For me that is. Brock seemed totally unfazed by our lack of chemistry. He rested his beefy arms against the table and said, “You’re probably wondering how I stay in such great shape.”

  “Um, well—”

  “I’m a fitness coach at Personal Best,” he said, naming a popular chain of gyms. “Apparently, I’m a good motivator for the weak-willed to stay in line when it comes to reaching their optimal fitness level.”

  I could just imagine him barking orders at a series of browbeaten, out-of-shape people in gym clothes. Or else giving them a menacing stare, as he hovered over them in a hawk-like stance. Suppressing a grimace, I told him, “That sounds…extreme.”

  “I’m an extreme kind of guy,” he answered, backing it up with his forceful gaze. It made me uncomfortable but I didn’t want to be the one who looked away first. Was this what Emily Bronte pictured when she created her famous alpha male hero? I wondered again what my friends and so many other women found attractive about that image as I squirmed under Brock’s stare.

  “Do you have any other hobbies?” I asked, wishing he would take more initiative with the conversation. He hadn’t asked me anything personal since we got here. It was starting to feel like a job interview instead of a date. What happened to that sensitive side my friends were so certain he possessed?

  “I have passions, not hobbies,” Brock answered. “Reading, art museums— that’s what I do in my spare time. Soaking in culture is the perfect way to release stress and negative energy after a difficult week.”

  “Right,” I said. Letting another painful silence fall as I stirred the lemon around in my glass of tea.

  When the server brought our orders, Brock inspected his with a dark frown. “I didn’t order this,” he said, causing the server’s brows to go up. “I ordered the Pad Thai with chicken, not shrimp. I hate shrimp.”

  “But sir—” The waiter began.

  Brock cut him off, waving impatiently at the dish. “I don’t want this. Why would I order something I don’t like? I want it exchanged. For the chicken.”

  A tense moment passed, the waiter lifting the rejected plate with a stoic look. “Of course, sir,” he said. “I’ll see that it’s changed for you.” Then he turned and marched back towards the kitchen, while Brock heaved a sigh.

  “Don’t you hate it when they mix up your order, then act like it’s your fault? This restaurant usually has good service. Maybe that guy is new or something.”

  I bit my lip, stirring the straw around in my ice tea. I was pretty sure that Brock had ordered the shrimp, not the chicken. Maybe he just misspoke, or changed his mind and didn’t want admit to the mistake. I decided I would leave an extra big tip for the waiter, feeling a pang of sympathy as they brought the requested chicken Pad Thai a moment later.

  My date didn’t seem to feel any regret, though. He dug into his meal with relish and a few unpleasant smacking sounds. My own dish had grown cold waiting for his ‘mix-up’ to be corrected, and I didn’t have much appetite left as I sampled the otherwise delicious curry.

  Brock didn’t seem to feel the need for conversation as he ate, shoveling bite after bite of food into his mouth. The few remarks I ventured to fill the silence were met with a grunt or nod—or a briefer version of his weird stare. I should be grateful, since it meant our date would come to an end sooner. As it was, I was checking my watch discreetly beneath the table every few minutes.

  “Feel like dessert?” Brock asked, once he had polished off the last of his dish. I had eaten about half of mine, but that was plenty as far as I was concerned.

  Shaking my head, I told him, “I really should get back to work.” If I was lucky, I would be there a few minutes early and could start going over tomorrow’s schedule before the staff meeting.

  “All right,” said Brock. But his voice had a reluctant sound. He didn’t offer to pay my half of the bill when it came—for which I was grateful, since I felt it had been a dead-end experience for both of us.

  Back in his car, Brock switched the music player to an angst
-infused rock selection. Its beat seemed to rattle the car’s whole interior, my temples beginning to throb. This date had gone on way too long, despite being one of the shortest of my life. I put on my sunglasses, then pulled them off again, fidgeting impatiently. I had done this several more times when the Regent finally came in to view.

  Brock’s car had barely come to a stop before I opened the passenger side door. Pasting on a smile, I told him, “I better get inside now. The staff meeting is about to start. It was nice meeting you, Brock.” It hadn’t been, but I hoped the words might soften the rest of the implication. I held out a hand, which he took after a long moment of simply staring at it.

  He still didn’t say anything, his quiet smile sliding into place as I climbed from the car. I slammed the door shut and hurried towards the Regent, a last look over my shoulder proving the car was still sitting there. Was he expecting something else? I waved goodbye, feeling awkward. Relief filled me when he finally drove away, his car circling towards the exit.

  “Enjoy your lunch Ms. Nichols?” Giles, the doorman, asked, holding open the door for me.

  “Not in the least, Giles,” I replied, receiving a puzzled look from him. At least it’s over with, I told myself, hurrying towards the back to change in to my uniform. No more gothic heroes for this single girl. As if there was such a thing in real life. I smiled at the description my friends had given him that day in the bookstore. Just wait until I told them what a letdown their sensitive Gothic hero turned out to be.

  Except that Brock had a lot more in common with Heathcliff than anyone could have guessed. I would regrettably learn just how much so a short time later.

  _________________________