Desiree's name flashes across the screen. Harris palms the phone, swiveling his head, searching for a private place to escape to with it. People are everywhere. They spread their elbows, pushed their chairs back, blocking the way.

Second ring.

His table in the corner is as good as it gets until he walks to his truck. His unfinished beer and the bills Sam left would keep the waiters away. Even if one decides to bother him, there are enough obstacles to slow them down. And the bustle will hide his words better than any doors if he picks up the call now. He has to, before the ringing annoys others into staring and hushing.

The third ring just starts up, when Harris taps the screen.

"Good evening, beautiful." And he was worried about someone overhearing that? Hah. He leans back, shoulder blades against the chair's back and takes a sip of his beer. It's still pleasantly cold.

Desiree's answering smile is so wide, he knows she's smiling, despite not being on a video call. He hears it. He can imagine it from her pictures he's seen.

"Sounds like you're partying," she says.

"Was supposed to be a business meeting, but I lucked out with the bar. It's buzzing." He pauses, realizing he can't leave it at that. "Want to drop by?"

"Tempting, but no. I have to get an early start tomorrow. Exciting project and...."

Desiree sounds like someone with clients, files and deadlines. Like his mother used to sound—no wonder Dad picked her. It's uncanny how often he does it, and that's why he fails in his matchmaking efforts so often. Harris isn't Edik, and he's determined to hit as far as he can from marrying his mother, no matter what the old adage says. Not that marriage is in the cards...

He clears his throat. "We're on for this Saturday though? Or are you working weekends too?"

She lets the previously suppressed chuckle out. "Never, that's the rule! I work hard, I play harder."

"Good rule," Harris says, sincerely. Maybe she's not like his mother at all.

"So, yes, we're on for Saturday. But a word of a warning—"

Harris takes another sip of his beer and almost folds his legs under him in his chair, like it's his own living room. Her voice is so jazzy, even if she's about to read him the riot act for some reason.

"In case you're the type to imagine things after a couple of texts, I'm on a rebound after a category five relationship. I'm not looking for anything serious."

He snorts in his beer, rising foam. His bickering with Ablaze has been broadcasted. The world has no privacy any more. In Singapore or wherever, who cares, if people saw him. But if people watch Ablaze here, at home, it sucks. Though how could they not? in Milwaukee, he might be even trending, curse it.

"I'm not the type, trust me."

"I see. Just a little bit of live drama for the podcasts then?"

"Sure. Personal story to hype the interest in fire safety. If it increases the cash flow to the Milwaukee's Fire Department, I'm game."

"The calendars didn't do it this year... Mr. March?"

"We're diversifying our sources of funding."

Harris shakes his head. What Dad did not pin to his dating profile? The yearbook's page from the chess tournament? Grade one photo where he looked sideways? The loners who live off the grid in mountain cabins... he understands why. Doesn't want to follow their example, but he understands.

She fills the pause with laughter.

Harris brings the phone closer to his lips. He hesitates, then says it anyway, because if he doesn't, he'll have only himself to blame. "Wear something nice, yes? I mean, for Saturday."

"I'll try to find a t-shirt without stains on it." She laughs louder. "I know what Ablaze looks like, and she has no idea what I look like, so I have an advantage. Whatever game you play—"

"No games." He doesn't know why the denial popped out of his mouth. Though it could be wishful thinking rather than a flat-out denial. Who knows, when he's drinking his beer in a corner of a crowded bar full of on-going hook-ups and lost hopes. The only consolation is that Desiree seems too smart to believe a word he says. It's better for both of them this way. No illusions. Dad has made a perfect match this time, Harris has to give it to him.

"If you say so, but if we lose the beautiful couple contest, it's because of you," she replies. "See you Saturday."

"See you."

Desiree has already hung up, but a smile slowly spreads his lips. Just to the right, though. If they aren't looking like a dream, it will be his fault. He can't have that. Never.

***

Harris parks the truck in Desiree's driveway.

Her house doesn't need work, it's so new. A few lots are still under construction. Her garden, thankfully, isn't just dusty. It already has grass laid and a scraggly tree in the middle of it. The entrance is so practical, it's nearly clinical too. White railing, white door and a thick doormat to stand on. Shutters, also white, block the window. Alas, it's too early for the lights to be turned on inside. Maybe with the yellow glow pooling on the concrete steps, the house would feel less indifferent. 

If he hadn't pressed the doorbell button already, he would have hopped back into his truck and drove to the nearest garden center to bring a pot of ubiquitous petunias to brighten these front steps.

But it's too late for chivalry now, so he tugs the sleeves of his rented suit down and sucks his teeth, waiting.

If Ablaze owned a house, there would be orchids or hydrangeas or something else weird on her porch... something exciting. He should have asked her, quiz-like, what flowers would you have in your front yard? It would have fit so well. They seemingly talked of everything else since that awkward Wednesday in an attempt to avoid the subject of Oliver and Desiree.

Only their conversations, like Alice in Wonderland, returned to their significant others the more they tried to run away from it. And once they started, without Sam to chaperone them, they played this flirting footsie till they were breathless. And since he knew so little about Desiree, he filled in the gaps—

Is she not coming to the door, because it offended her? Harris runs his hand through his hair trying to remember if he said anything uncomplimentary. And then the heels click inside the house and the door swings open.

Were Harris a cartoon character, his jaw would have hit the petunia-free doorstep. Since he is a human, he whistles softly. "You look astounding."

Her dress is sleeveless, with lace bodice and a free flowing, light skirts bringing to mind Marylin Monroe, only it's not white. It's a gorgeous blue against her rich, warm skin. Her waste is cinched with countless rows of lapis-lazuli and golden beads. Matching necklace drapes the base of her neck. The earrings are the same. Her tresses are braided in a myriad thin braids with golden thread glittering in their black mysteriously.

"Thank you," she says and pecks him on the cheek easily, since her golden sandals add three inches to her lithe figure. The gesture coats him in her perfume, and he's vibrating like a guitar string.

She sashays to his truck. He shakes his stupor off and rushes to open the door for her, while blush warms his cheeks. A girl like this should be riding in a convertible, in a Ferrari, a Porsche... not a Dodge that has seen better times.

But the height of the truck's seat is just perfect for her to dangle her gold-straps wrapped ankles. So long, so slender! He's whistling again.

She wrinkles her nose, arranging her skirt on the worn seat. "Where are the old coffee cups and half-eaten donuts? Or is it a police officer stereotype?"

"I'm a bit of a neat-freak," he confesses and closes the passenger door. Once he's behind the wheel, he intercepts her glance in the rear-view mirror. "At work, I see damaged, burned things every day. I balance it out, I suppose. So, if you're into guys who scrub every surface and fix everything they can lay their hands on, I'm your guy."

"Intriguing."

The acceptance instead of a rapid-fire question or a dig? That's relaxing, actually. He drives, wondering why he's stuck on Ablaze, when it's much more logical for him to be with Desiree, who doesn't have a boyfriend, is from Milwaukee and as level-headed as it gets.

Once he parks, Desiree slips her arm through his. They walk into the giant ballroom with an old-fashioned crystal ceiling feature and equally old-fashioned round tables set with porcelain for dinner. There's hardly a man whose gaze doesn't linger on his date. Maybe, for once, he's doing something right. He's with a girl his Dad approves of. She's turning heads. What else can he possibly need? No fireworks, but are the fireworks—

His roving gaze lands Ablaze and a tall blond man who could only be Oliver. His arm is wrapped around her waist-line in a manner that makes Harris' breath hitch. It's as if some mischievous hand cranked up the lights to the max and they are strobing.

Really, maybe Lance gave him decent advice for once.

Maybe he needs his head examined. Because the fireworks explode behind his eyeballs, shaking him to the very core. Why? Why? Why?!