Starlight and Slinky: Round 2 - fight!

I show up at Captain Starlight's doorstep and he is dragging out the Vespa, looking insanely, mindboggling sexy in a pectoral-hugging black T-shirt and plaid fitted bermudas. Christ, he looks to me like a walking stick of liver treats does to a starving Golden Retriever.

Look at you, he says, taking in the little skirt, the red open-toe pumps with warm, appraising eyes. I surreptitiously wipe drool from my lips and hope he didn't notice.

I'm kidnapping you to the beach, he tells me.
Okay, I say happily. I'm pretty sure that he could have told me that he was taking me to Mongolia on the back of his donkey and gotten pretty much the same response.

I lose my sunglasses, my phone, my wallet and pretty much all my willpower on that scooter ride. I only get two of those things back. The latter is not one of them. The wind whips tears from my eyes and I lose track of the conversation because I'm worrying about my eyeliner turnin me into Taropanda. I sit with my back really straight so that I wouldn't give into the temptation to lean into his back.

I intended to leave after brunch (panfried mushrooms with feta nd roasted hasselback potatoes, gorgeous. But still not as edifying as his grey eyes, yum.). But I digress. Witness Slinky transmute from strong independent woman into slobbering idiot!
Come in, he said
Okay, I said.

I intended to leave after the first episode of The Unit.
Want tea? he asked, bringing out the most gorgeous little glass teapot.
Okay.

I intended to leave after the third episode of The Unit.
Let's scoot over to the markets and grab some Japanese. The light glows on his skin.
Okay.

As we're watching Dennis Haysbert kick the shit out of a door, Captain Starlight pipes up and says in a pleased sort of way. That's my gun!

I give him a look. You do realize that's like me watching an episode of E.R. and saying, Hey, that's my scalpel, right?

Japanese turns into movie, and at the cinema, he heads over to the counter and as we check out screening times, he attempts to finagle a poster of The Hurt Locker.That's what I do, he said to the attendant, in an attempt at finagling.

I feel my eyebrows shoot up my forehead like surprised animals, but I don't say anything. He still knows I did it though, because as we walk out later, he says, wow, I was kind of a tool in there, wasn't I? That's what I do? he says, shaking his head.

I laugh at him.

Two guys drive past in their souped-up Camaro and stare at us as we stand at the corner, waiting for the lights to change.

Stop checking her out, he says, half-joking. I could blow up your car. I know how.
Yes, I tease him. Because that's what you do.
Okay, you have to never mention that again, he says, profoundly sheepish.

We watch The Road, and we're horribly depressed after that.
I've got the perfect solution, he says. The Unit snaps onto screen.
Ooooo. Pause. Can you take off your shirt while we watch that?
No.
Damn.

We run through the entire season and we’re yawning but not ready for bed.
Let me show you TED.
Okay. Pause. Can you take off your shirt now?
No, he says again, half amused, half-exasperated.
Damn.

Are you spending the night? he asks me.
This is the only point in the entire day where some semblance of self-control asserts itself, and I manage to squeak no! before scuttling back to my car before my traitorous tongue can overtake my willpower. He walks me back to the car, wraps his arms around me and kisses me goodbye. If I wasn't right at my car, I would have been undone by that kiss. I would have melted into a little puddle of oversexed hormones and mush at his feet.

He needed to study that day. So did I. Neither of us did a damned bit of it.