Under My Skin

Four

"Ella?"

I screamed as my eyes flew open. I drunk in those mystic blue orbs, feeling irrationally calm all of a sudden. His hair was more mussed than last time, and he was wearing a more casual sweater and slacks, but there was no doubt that it was Mystery Man.

"Your self-preservation instincts are dreadful," he whispered, chuckling at my expense. "You're lucky it's just me, dodo." His hand made its way to the crown of my head, unclasping my vintage barrette as auburn curls bounced to my shoulders. "Do you make a habit of running face first into brick walls at a hint of danger?"

I knew I should've been creeped out by his overfamiliarity, but his touch made me all marshmallowy. Bereft of a filter, I said, "do you make a habit of chasing girls down alleyways?"

That seemed to catch him off guard, making him shift to his back foot. "Well, that would be terrible luck on your part if I did."

"Wouldn't be the first time," I muttered.

With the small distance he afforded me, I came to my senses and poked a finger into his chest. "So what's your deal?" My breath hitched as he eyed me curiously. "Should I be unleashing my flailing limbs on you?" I used the wall for support and shimmied up. "I've got to warn you, I have an unbelievable lack of coordination. I may just smash you, totally by accident!"

"that's okay." He leaned in and the air escaped my lungs once more. His lips brushed against my ear as he whispered, "I brought my boxing gear."

"Well that's good then." Was all I could manage, sounding like a bad impersonation of Goofy.

He removed his sweater and handed it to me. "Put this on. You've got gåshud."

The way his mouth rolled around the last guttural word made me clench.

What was that? Some sort of European phrase? "I've got what now?"

"Sorry. You've got goose pimples."

I gently caressed his forearm. "I like the other word for it better."

"It's swedish," he growled, leaning in closer.

"Let's go then, Ikea." With a sway of my hips, and a tap of my heel, I was out of that alley. "I'm looking forward to you popping my Rico cherry."

"It will be my pleasure." he comes up behind me and draped the sweater over my shoulders, his hands lingering. "Should be fun."

I looked at my watch. 10:00pm. "Shouldn't Rico's be closed by now?" The silence surprised me, so I looked back to see a blushing Swede with a coy smile.

"We're almost there."

The parking lot was practically empty, and the outside lights were off. The unassuming brick building was the talk of the town in recent years. It had been an abandoned hospital that had remained uninhabited for the better part of half a century, but Rico had seen something in it. Five years ago the Italian immigrant converted the old hospital ward into a modern Italian restaurant, on the brink of its first Michelin Star. That is, if the local magazines were to be believed.

"Did you make a reservation?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I may have sorted something out."