I pay, trying to scurry undetected to the condiments, juggling my cardboard snack tray awkwardly as I pluck a few napkins from the metallic holder. One, two… five napkins.
That should be enough, right?
For good measure, I pluck out two more from the holder because sometime my butter hands get out of control. I hate having buttery fingerprints.
Still clutching my ticket stub, I attempt to lift it to see which theater my movie is playing in, but fail miserably and have to set everyth—
“Daphne?”
I freeze.
Look up.
Pivot.
Standing behind me in his navy blue pea coat, Dexter Ryan smiles crookedly down at me.
He smoothes his hands down the front of his dark pressed jeans—or is he wiping sweat off his palms?—and pushes his tortoiseshell eyeglasses up the bridge of his nose.
I take it all in—every inch of him—from the preppy jacket, the glasses, the slight cleft in his chin, up to the black cable knit winter hat when he suddenly removes it. Instead of his hair being flatted by the hat, it’s unruly and a bit tousled. A rich brown, his locks are wavy, shaggy and desperately need a trim.
He finger combs it out of his face.
“It is Daphne, right?” He asks, unsure of himself.
It’s hard to hold back my groan of dismay at being spotted, but I muster up a cheerful, “Yeah. Hi. Dexter?”
He smiles then, his eyes shining behind his dark, tortoiseshell lenses. I mean—I think his eyes are shining. Maybe it’s just the reflection of his glasses?
Those dark eyes dart down to my snacks, the ticket stub grasped between two fingers on my right hand. His brows go up. “Do you need help with anything? Sorry, I’m an idiot; it’s obvious you’re waiting for someone.”
A nervous giggle escapes my lips, only I can’t smack a hand over my mouth to stop it. “Gosh thank you. I don’t need help,” I hurriedly say. “I just have to see which theater I’m in, but I’m having a hard time with…”
All my food.
“It’s just you?” His head cranes around, confused. “I’m sorry, that was rude. Of course it’s not just you. Why would it be?” His deep voice gives a forced, nervous chuckle.
Wow, this is about to get awkward. “Nope, it is just me,” I barely manage to get the words out. “I’m here alone.”
Dexter’s eyes go wide, sending his brows straight into his hairline. His mouth even falls open a little but no sound comes out.
“Great,” I joke, more for my benefit than his. “I’ve rendered you speechless.”
I follow the line of his jacket, down to the hand tightly gripping his winter hat.
“No! Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean… I don’t know what I mean.” Deep breath. “I’m here alone, too.”
Suddenly, his mouth twitches into a goofy grin, and my green eyes fly make a beeline to his lips as they form the words, “Which movie are you here to see?”
Those lips.
Huh?
Instead of formulating a response, I find myself trying not to stare at a perfectly sculpted upper lip and a full mouth surrounded by a days’ worth of five o’clock shadow. Strong jawline. Straight, white teeth. And is that line in his cheek a dimple?
Dexter clears his throat, and I watch transfixed as the chords in his neck flex when he reprises, “Which movie are you here to see?”
Huh?
“Huh?”
Jesus, I have some serious issues. And if Dexter think I’ve gone space cadet on him, he doesn’t let on; his brown eyes are kind. Friendly. Sincere without a trace of egotism. “What movie?”
Oh god. Could this be any more humiliating? The guys asked me the same question three times.
“Uh… StarGate?”
Don’t judge me! Don’t judge me, Dexter! I want to shout. I want to hide behind my massive bucket of popcorn. Yes, it’s true! I am at a nine o’clock screening of StarGate, the twenty-year-old movie turned nerd cult classic of all time.
By myself.
As in: alone.
On a Saturday night.
A pleased grin quirks, his thick brows shoot up for a second time in surprise before he clears his throat. “Me too.”
Dexter briefly glances down at his ticket stub, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. God, it’s such a sweet gesture I actually cock my head and stare.
Truth be told, I could probably stare at him all night.
It’s been all of three minutes and I find him charming, adorable, and unassumingly handsome. The kind of handsome that sneaks up on you.
He clears his throat again. “It’s, uh, in theater twelve. Let me just…” He reaches around me then to grab a few napkins for himself, though he’s only carrying a medium soda.
No popcorn. No candy. No snacks.
Wait. No snacks?
Who doesn’t get snacks at the movies? Who?
Self-conscious of my gluttony, I back away, wielding my embarrassing armload of junk food, face flaming hot. “I guess I should go find myself a seat. Yeah. I should go do that. The previews have probably already started and those are my favorite part…”
Stop talking Daphne!
Dexter nods and grapples for a few more napkins.
Oh brother; between the two of us, we have enough napkins to last us through Armageddon.
Meghan March is the author of contemporary and erotic romance novels.
