Part 3: Inhale

“Thanks, Marjorie.” 

Taking a deep and calming breath, I curled my fingers around the paper cup and stood.  After all these years and concert experiences, I was finally going to finally meet and speak to my imaginary lover for the price of a cup of coffee.

Oh, the irony…

With his head still buried in the phone, Jon Bon Jovi paid me no attention until I stepped up next to his booth and quietly said, “Thanks for the coffee.”

The ingrained ability to be “on” at a moment’s notice had his press smile sliding into place as his face lifted.  Unlike many of those press smiles I’d seen through the years, though, the dull boredom so often evident in his eyes lingered for only a split second before they sparkled with something that either turned me on or made me pee just a little bit.

The thought of arousal was a far more palatable reason for my panties going damp than the premature need for Depends, so I went with that and enjoyed the vision of sexiness in his black v-neck tee.  Lines around his eyes had him looking tired, and he was unshaven as though it he’d had a long night that wasn’t over yet, but he still exuded enough male pheromones to make me mentally fawn over him as I felt an accompanying twinge of sympathy. 

I’d read about his recent divorce.  According to the media and his prepared statements, it was all amicable and friendly, but his appearance today suggested that might not be entirely true.  Was it wrong that I wanted to run my hand along his face and tell him I’d make it all better?

Yeah, probably.

“I think that’s my line,” he spoke with amusement, putting down the phone and extending a hand.  “Hi.  At the risk of being redundant, I’m Jon.”

My fingers were encased in a firm, unhurried handshake, giving me time to register the velvet texture of his skin, which was by far the softest I’d ever felt on a man.  For all these years, I’d erroneously harbored the thought that anyone who played guitar would have rough and callused fingers, but he proved me wrong.  Very wrong, because the silkiness of his palm sliding out of my grasp was embarrassingly erotic. 

For me, not him, I assumed with a smile.

“And I’m Tiny.  It’s a pleasure to meet you." 

“Tiny?”  Tilting his head incrementally to one side, he gave me a casual once-over with mirthful eyes.  “With a name like that, I’d expect you to be under five-feet tall or a middle linebacker.”

“I know, right?” I’d heard it before – more than once, but not from him.  I was also a fan girl, so the man could fart “Yankee Doodle” and I’d probably find it charming.  “My mother was still high on pain meds when she named me Valentine.  It’s been shortened over the years.”

“It’s cute.”

He was watching me with interest, but when he didn’t say anything else, I felt compelled to bridge the silent gap.  “Thanks.  You know, I’m in here at least four days a week and have been for more than a decade.  This is not a normal hangout for you, so at the risk of being rude, what brings you back for a second day in a row?”

“Impulsive curiosity and a little boredom,” he answered without hesitation.  “There aren’t many that recognize me and Dave without asking for a photo or autograph.  There also aren’t many who buy me something as simple but appreciated as a cup of coffee.  You did both.”

With that revelation, I was grateful for yesterday’s afternoon meeting from Hell that had bum-rushed me out of here.  If not for that, I may have succumbed to the stereotypical ways of photos and autographs and missed out on this – Jon Bon Jovi’s curiosity and desire to meet me.  This was worth more than getting eight million retweets or Facebook likes on a selfie with a superstar. 

It was… personal.

“So I did.”  Shifting from one foot to another so that I might ease the pinched pinky toe, I decided to excuse myself before this became awkward.  Not that I couldn’t sit and just look at him for the rest of the afternoon on into the evening, but I hated to ruin the intrigue by being my caffeine-induced self.  “Well, thanks again for the coffee and coming for me.  Er, to meet me.”

Sparkling like blue diamonds, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he laughed.  “It’ll take more than coffee for that.”

Heat flooded my face, no doubt making my cheeks as red as a baboon’s butt.  Without the power to rewind time, there was nothing I could do but shrug and flash my dimples.  “How much more?”

It wasn’t the first time I had seen both of his eyebrows wing up and crinkle his forehead like that.  It was just the first time in person.  Before now, that particular facial expression usually indicated to me that he thought an interview question was either outrageous or ignorant.  Then again, maybe that's what it still meant, and the thought that my question was being categorized as outrageous or ignorant only embarrassed me further.   

What exactly was redder than a baboon’s butt?  Could capillaries permanently burst from all the blood rushing into my cheeks?  I feared I would find out that was a resounding “yes” when looking in the mirror later.

“More than you wanna do in a diner.”  His voice was about an octave lower than it was a moment ago, creating the illusion if not the intent of sexuality.

This would be the perfect spot for me to be a suggestive savant, but I was floundering for an appropriate response that was sophisticatedly risqué.  All I could come up with in my head was something like, “Wanna bet?”

That, however, was out of the question.  It was crass, tacky and totally beneath my station as a mature, professional woman.  I’d say that to him in my fantasies later tonight, when I relived this scenario in a slightly different way.

Thank God that, when I finally opened my mouth to reply, there was a spurt of estrogen that backfired from my ovaries to produce an acceptable response.

“I’m not wearing a diner confinement bracelet on my ankle.”

Okay, so maybe “acceptable response” was a bit of an exaggeration.  The “wanna bet” thing would’ve been closer to acceptable without exposing my bizarre sense of humor.

It was with a great sense of relief that I realized he was laughing quietly.  “Dave would love you.”

So, not only was he good looking, he had a personality, too.  I was pretty happy to discover this because my mind is somewhat convoluted and oftentimes eccentric.  As such, a lot of people don’t get me and even fewer can keep up.  It was nice to know he didn’t fall into the pile of cardboard box personalities that I often ran across, who really just needed to be recycled.

“Damn,” I lamented with a lazy wink, cheering on my inner flirt.  “And here I was hoping you might.  At least once.”

Both hairy, muscular forearms were propped on the tabletop in front of him, stacked on top of one another as he looked at me.  The upside was that he wasn’t shirking in horror or rolling his eyes.  If my wishful interpretation was to be believed, it appeared that slight angling up at the corners of his mouth was still a smile.  Baby blues that had previously sparkled with mirth were still bright and clear, but now thoughtful instead of laughing. 

Like maybe…

He.

Was.

Considering.

It.

Suddenly my pinky toe wasn’t the only thing throbbing painfully.  Blood raced through my veins with excitement and, even if his consideration was simply a figmentation of my imagination, the buzz of adrenaline still felt good.  It had been a while since a genuine testosterone carrying man had given me that kind of buzz, and I was going to ride the wave as long as I could.

I’d be reliving it tonight even if the only action I got was punishing my carpal tunnel afflicted appendages.

“You drink anything besides coffee?”

Goosebumps pimpled all the way down my arms. 

Had Delia been screwing with the air conditioning or was that question every bit as sexy as it sounded?  My carpal tunnel swore it was the air conditioning, but the throbbing parts begged to differ.

“Well… my coffee typically goes Irish after sundown.  But, occasionally and under the right circumstances, I also drink a little white wine.”

His chin lifted incrementally, giving just the hint of acknowledgement to my response.  “In that case, I think I’d like to buy you a drink sometime.  You interested?”

Interested?  Holy… freaking… barnyard animal.  Hell yes, I was interested!

“Sure.”  How I managed to make it sound casual, I’ll never know unless it was due to lack of oxygen.

“Good.”  His pristine white teeth flashed as he swiped a thumb across his phone.  “I have a thing tonight, but maybe tomorrow?  The Intercontinental is just down the block.  If you don’t see me in the bar at six, check in with the bartender.”

The Intercontinental was a hotel.  Was that a coincidence?  My very vivid imagination kicked into overdrive,and I fervently hoped his choice of venue was intentional. 

“Sounds good.”

“Tell ya what.  Why don’t you give me your number just in case?”

I was not in the habit of giving my number to men, but I knew I was going to make an exception for this man.  The thing was... Well, I wanted him to know I was making an exception. 

“Since I’ve never heard that you’re a psychopath, I will bend my personal rules for you.  You should be aware that this isn’t a common occurrence and that  I can count on one hand the number of men who’ve gotten my number after only one date.  None have gotten it for the price of a cup of coffee.”

Of course I softened all that with a teasing lilt and a smile.  After all, the man wanted to buy me a drink.  Sounding like a prudish bitch wasn’t a terribly gracious response, or likely to get me a positive answer to that venue question.

“The celebrity card is working for me instead of against me today.  Good to know.  Number?”

How many times did a woman get lucky enough to not only crush on a celebrity, but to find out that she actually liked him?  I could guarantee it wasn’t often, so I was taking my godsend and would bite anyone who tried to steal it away.

Grinning like a fool, I gave Jon freaking Bon Jovi my number and wondered if I could get in for a leg wax today. 

Or a tummy tuck.  That would be even better.