The Friday Date ( Continuing "Chapter 5: Lucky Shot" from this series )

John scratched his chin, "What are you doing Friday?"

"Working."

"I'll be there at four."

"At the computer lab?"

He nodded and opened the passenger door for her.

"How can we have a date at work?"

"You'll see."

There were four days to make something up.

Friday : August 18, 2006

Margaret glanced at the small digital clock in her work cubicle but the time hadn't changed.

Yet.

3:52 pm

Ever since Margaret was a little girl, she'd been fascinated by the measurement of all things, time especially. Clocks gave her a sense of security mixed with wonder that she normally found comforting. But this particular clock seemed to be incapable of moving time any faster.

Margaret turned her eyes to the computer screen and forced her fingers to the keys, tapping through the statical data she'd been tasked with analyzing for Professor Lang. Four o'clock would come, whether or not John Thornton came with it, and there was no sense in getting worked up about it.

She had real work to do.

3:53 pm

Margaret let out a loud huff and shoved her chair away from her desk. She might as well watch the bloody clock, and stop pretending she wasn't nervous. Although John had classified their last encounter at the gun range as a date, it wasn't really—not properly.

He hadn't really asked and she hadn't really accepted—just like everything he did that night, including kiss her, it just happened. That was problem number one. Not the kiss. That had been lovely. Beyond lovely. Margaret blushed and squirmed a little in her chair. Her mind had been full of that kiss for nearly four days and she was beginning to feel quite guilty. Her mother was still gone and her father was all but lost in his grief. And here she was thinking about a kiss. That was problem number two.

Margaret pulled out her planner and flipped to an empty page. She ought to have listed the pros and cons of dating John before agreeing to see him today. She scribbled furiously, but her mind wouldn't concentrate.

Maggie, I love you.

That was problem number three. How on earth was she supposed to date a man who already claimed to be in love with her? And why had he said it at all? He couldn't really be in love with her, could he?

3:55 pm

Impossible man. He was always doing things he shouldn't and not caring what anyone thought about it. Like planning a date in the middle of the day when she was clearly busy. Problem number four.

Margaret glanced around the dumpy office. There was crumpled paper on the floor near the bins, takeaway cups and wrappers littering every flat surface, the windows were filthy and smudged, the overall atmosphere entirely unromantic. Margaret's fingers itched with the sudden urge to tidy up. But her cubicle was already in order, and she had little say over the other desks in the lab.

3:56 pm

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, grabbing the small bin under her desk. It wasn't her job to clean up rubbish but at least it would pass the time and if he didn't come at all she wouldn't feel completely unproductive.

Margaret was wedged underneath two facing computer desks trying to untangle a sweets wrapper from the monitor cable when a throat cleared behind her. She pressed her eyes shut, cursing herself for not buying a bloody watch.

"How long have you been standing there?" She demanded as she squirmed out from under the desk.

John glanced at the clock on the wall. "Five minutes."

"And you couldn't clear your throat sooner?" Margaret tossed the wrapper into her now full rubbish bin and blew her bangs out of her face. "You just decided to stand there?"

John shrugged and crossed his arms. Margaret turned on her heel and marched to her desk, shoving the bin back in place. He followed her, leaning easily against the doorframe as she tried to look busy.

"I've still got an hour on my shift—"

"I know."

"—so why on earth you proposed we do this here I've no idea," she rambled on, pushing bits of paper about.

"Because computer labs are boring as shit, especially in the middle of summer," John said pulling up a chair. "The last hour of any shift is always the worst." He retrieved a book from his shirt pocket, pushed back his hat, and propped his feet on the edge of her desk.

Margaret stared at him, her jaw twitching. "Are you— reading?"

"Yes." John glanced at her over his book. "Finish your work. I'll wait."

"And you're just going to sit there and read while I—" she gestured to her computer, "do maths things?"

"Yeah."

"John, that's a terrible idea."

He raised an eyebrow, "Do you have a better one?"

"This date was your idea, not mine." Margaret crossed her arms, glaring at him. "Perhaps I'm a bit old fashioned, but you watching me work doesn't exactly scream romance."

"I don't do romance, Maggie."

She blinked, her chest tightening a little. "Why are you here then?"

"To be with you." John set his book aside.

"Surely you came here with a better plan than reading a bloody book and staring at me."

John's lips quirked, and his eyes glinted with mischief. It was a look he rarely gave to anyone except Margaret and for the longest time it had irritated her. The familiar flair of annoyance now mixed with the remembrance of that superb and surprising kiss. Now if he proposed a bit of snogging, she didn't think she'd complain—Margaret shivered and switched off her computer.

"Alright, then. What's your brilliant plan, John Thornton?"

John gave her a crooked grin as he pulled a pack of playing cards out of his back pocket and slapped them on her desk next to his book.

Margaret raised an eyebrow. "Cards?"

"Poker."

"You want to play poker?" Margaret asked slowly. "Are we in grammar school again?"

"It's fun." John opened the box and slid out the deck, expertly shuffling the cards as if he'd done it a thousand times. "Trust me."

"It's only fun if you're playing for money."

"Or something else," John retorted, dealing the cards. "So long as the stakes are high—"

"I'm not playing strip poker with you."

"I'm saving strip poker for date number seven."

"Wh—What?" Margaret's eyes snapped up from her cards but John's face was completely serious as he studied his own hand. She opened her mouth, shut it, and blushed. "What are playing for, if not money or—clothes?"

"Questions." John pulled a pad of yellow sticky notes from his other pocket and held up two pens. "Write down any and every embarrassing question you've ever wanted to ask me. One per note and fold it in half."

"Alright," Margaret frowned, but she grabbed the pad of yellow notes and started writing.

John pulled out a blue pad and did the same. After a few minutes they each had a pile of folded pieces of paper.

"Now what?" Margaret asked eyeing the piles.

"We trade." John pushed his pile in her direction. "And we gamble."

Margaret carefully set the pile of yellow paper in front of John. She blushed, thinking of the questions she'd written down.

"I still don't understand—"

"Whichever of my questions I win back from you, you have to answer, no matter how embarrassing." John said. "And whatever you win from me, I have to answer."

"Alright," Margaret felt her face flushing again, but she raised her chin. "Shall we play then?"

"Ladies first."

Within the hour Margaret quickly learned that either John was exceptionally good at poker or she was monstrously bad—or both. They bickered, tossing insults and good humored threats, as John thoroughly trashed her. Margaret tossed aside her last hand, and rolled her eyes.

"Must you win every bloody turn?"

"I didn't. You won two."

"By sheer luck and audacity," Margaret replied fiddling with her measly five bits of yellow paper. "Not very gentlemanly of you, I might add."

"Thorntons always win, Maggie." He leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his face. John had managed to win back all but one of his questions and Margaret was suddenly nervous.

"Shall you go or—"

"Losers go first."

"I think I preferred ladies first." She grumbled. Margaret opened her first question, and cleared her throat. "Have you ever kissed anyone? Beside me?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"That's two questions."

"You've got at least twelve there I have to answer."

He raised an eyebrow and then shrugged. "Jodie Kunitz, Lucy Jo Perkins, Heidi Smith, and Anne Latimer."

"Anne Latimer?" Margaret thought her eyes were going to pop out of her head. "You—did you really?"

"Yes."

"Did you—did you like it?"

He grinned but didn't answer, opening one of the folded blue notes. Margaret squirmed as his grin grew wider. "This is a good one."

"Hurry up before I die of suspense."

"What's your bra size?"

"My what?" Margaret choked, her face flushing hot then cold, "I won't answer that."

"I told you the rules—" John laced his hands behind his head.

"This goes a far beyond—"

"—and you agreed to them."

John held her blistering stare for a good thirty seconds.

"You're impossible and this is decidedly unromantic." She snapped, her stomach twisting.

"Fair's fair, Maggie," John still didn't look away.

"I hate you." She squeezed her eyes shut, "I'm a 36C."

Margaret didn't know what she expected him to say in response but she didn't expect him to laugh, a low rumbling sound that sent delicious shivers down her spine.

"Stop it." Margaret demanded trying to shove him. "Why are you laughing?"

"I have no idea what that size even means."

"Then why the bloody hell did you ask?"

"Because you're sexy as hell when you're mad," he gestured to her. "Your turn."

"I'm—you—John, you can't say things like that!"

"I just did."

Margaret felt her whole body burning, and she deliberately unfolded her next piece of paper. "Would you have kissed me if I was seventeen instead of eighteen?"

"Yes."

"And go to prison?"

John rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't go to prison unless we'd—"

"Yeah, alright—you've told me what I want to know." She interrupted, face flaming with embarrassment. "Go on."

"Did you like what you saw when you interrupted my shower?"

Margaret's mouth fell open as he sat back with a smug look on his face. "That—That question is wrong on so many levels."

"Well?"

"I—I don't—really remember—"

"Sure you do."

Margaret covered her face with one hand as her treacherous memory reminded her of exactly what she'd seen. She sighed.

"You know you're attractive, John Thornton."

"Yes or no, Maggie."

"I—yes. I liked what I saw."

She peeked at him through her fingers, irritated by the cocky smile spreading across his face.

"Stop it. My turn." She unfolded her bit of paper and almost groaned out loud. "What's your shoe size?"

John snorted. "Are you asking about my shoes or something else?"

"Your shoes. I've seen everything else remember?"

"Fair enough," His voice rumbled over her skin, and Margaret shivered.

"Answer the question."

"Sixteen. And you haven't seen everything. Yet."

"You're nasty."

"I'm a guy." He chuckled. "And you asked." He picked up his next question. "Have you ever slept with Henry Lennox?"

Margaret made a face, "Bloody hell."

"Is that a no?"

"That's none of your business—"

"And the girls I've kissed aren't your business either."

"Kissing is far less personal than sex, John."

"It's all the same to me," he insisted. "Kissing's just step one."

"And would you tell me if I asked you about all the girls you've slept with?"

"Yes."

"You—you would?" Margaret sat up, a little startled. "Are you always so —so honest?"

"Only with you." John folded his arms, "Henry Lennox."

"No. Never." She shuddered and grabbed her second to last question. "Have you—" Margaret paused and cleared her throat. "Uh—perhaps we can skip this one."

"No skipping."

Margaret rolled her eyes, "Have you ever imagined me naked?"

John raised an eyebrow as she tried to look anywhere but at him and failed.

"Yes."

Margaret yanked her attention to her hands, still embarrassed by her own audacity, and oddly pleased with his frankness. This had to be the most awkward and unconventional date she'd ever been on. She heard him unfold his next bit of paper, steeling herself for something mortifying.

"Do you want kids?"

Margaret raised her eyes, catching his blue ones. He was as serious as she'd ever seen him. For all his rough edges and brusque personality, she knew in her bones John would make a fiercely devoted father. She imagined he'd be a bit gruff and terribly old fashioned, but he'd die before he let anything bad happen to his kids. And then Margaret found herself imagining John holding a baby with a pair of blue eyes and thick black hair that stood on end. It was a delicious and heart warming and terrifying thought. All his children would probably look more like him than her.

Margaret blinked.

Bloody hell.

"Maggie?"

"I used to think I didn't." She said softly. "But I guess it all depends on who their father would be."

It didn't matter how many dates they went on. When he asked her to marry him, which she felt certain he would, she was going to say yes. Somewhere in the last six months Margaret had fallen in love with John Thornton and hadn't even realised it.

How had that happened? And did he know?

"Do you want kids?" She asked before she could stop herself.

"Yes."

"H-how many?"

"As many as possible, as soon as possible."

John held her gaze for another long moment until Margaret picked up her last yellow paper. Her chest tightened and she tried to steady her shaking hands, "If you could ask me to do anything, and you knew I wouldn't say no, what would it be?"

John sat up straighter, frowning a little as he thought. Margaret's mouth felt thick, her tongue dry and cottony. He looked as if he was weighing his answer against her response.

"You sure you want to know?"

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the intensity in his face. But she nodded.

"Marry me."

"Are you asking?" Margaret's eyes widened as the words slipped out. John's eyebrows shot up. "Sorry—bloody hell, never mind. Forget I said anything—it's a stupid thing to say and I—

John leaned forward, took her face in his hands, and kissed her, cutting off her flow of nervous chatter. It was rather awkward with the desk between them, but Margaret still felt like her skin was melting. She gasped when John stood, lifting her out of her seat and into his arms, without missing a beat. When John grinned under her mouth and took the kiss deeper, Margaret didn't even hesitate to respond, sinking her hands into his thick hair and pulling him as close as she could.

"So is this a yes?"

"That's not funny—"

"I'm not joking."

Margaret frowned a little and shimmied down out of his grasp, but John wouldn't let her go completely, "We've barely been on two dates, and we fight about everything and—"

"Do you love me?"

She gaped at him, "I—that's not—you've already asked me all your questions—"

He reached over, plucked up his last piece of paper and handed it to her.

"John, I—"

"Read it."

Margaret's hands shook as she unfolded the bit of blue paper and stared at his messy scrawl.

Are you in love with me?

"Maggie, if you love me, then marry me." John tangled his hands in her hair, kissing her again. Margaret shivered, sinking against him, her neck protesting the impossible angle. "Please."

"You don't waste time do you?"

He smiled against her lips, "No."

"I'm eighteen—"

"I don't care. You know I don't."

"We'll be gossip fodder for months—"

"I'll risk it."

"Of course you will." Margaret sighed. "If I say yes, you will take me on a proper date, John Thornton."

"Define 'proper'."

"Heavens, I don't know," she muttered, rubbing her forehead with her hand. "Just not this and not the shooting range."

"Is that a yes?"

Margaret glanced up. His face was tense and hopeful, his whole body tight as a bow string. For all his confidence and cockiness, John was still a man who'd just gambled his entire future on a single awful question she hadn't yet answered.

"Impossible man," Margaret murmured, cupping his face with her hands. "Yes."

AN : After I wrote "Lucky Shot" someone commented that they'd love to see the Friday date. Well here it is. Because I wanted to know what John would do too. Hope you enjoy. Cheers.