Chevy crosses his arms, and I stand back up to my full height so we’re eye-to-eye. “What’s that he said about you winning her back?”
I’m debating which answer is less likely to get me arrested again when Chevy’s arm moves toward me. I flinch, then giggle. You know, like a real man does when faced with danger. Chevy barks out a laugh, and I realize he’s holding out his hand for me to shake.
“What’s this for?” I ask, clasping his hand. He squeezes uncomfortably tight, so I do the same until we’re both gritting our teeth.
“We’re shaking on a gentleman’s agreement,” Chevy says.
“What’s the agreement?”
“We agree that if you hurt Lindy again, I will use everything in my power to make you suffer for as long as we both shall live.”
I drop his hand, shaking mine out. He does the same. “That sounds a little like a wedding vow, Officer Chevy.”
“And like a wedding vow, it’s for life. Now, come on.” Chevy starts off down the sidewalk at a good clip.
I follow more slowly, not sure of my alternative but not sure I like this option. “And where are we going?”
“My place,” he says.
“Your place,” I repeat. “Are you offering me a place to stay?”
Chevy turns, walking backward as he smiles at me. “You know what they say—keep your friends close and the people who may or may not be enemies closer. Either way, I think it’s best for Sheet Cake if I keep both eyes on you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lindy
I agree to meet Pat for dinner entirely for selfish reasons: I haven’t eaten out in a long time. That’s the ONLY reason. Not because I’ve been thinking about the man nonstop for days now. I’m not here for the man; I’m here for the Tex-Mex. That’s my theme song, folks.
I’m so desperate to prove this to myself that I inhale the first basket of chips in a record two minutes. I can’t talk if my mouth’s full. That’s Manners 101. This single-minded focus on food also helps me ignore the almost-unignorable man across the table.
It helps. But only a little. Pat simply can’t be ignored, the same way you can’t miss the morning sun in a curtainless room. And he’s got mass appeal; it’s not just me. I’ve seen the way women keep eyeing him. Then they look at me, checking to see if I’ve got a ring on while I’m double-fisting chips.
Even as I’m licking salt off my fingers like some kind of heathen, a table of women are appraising Pat. They’re awfully bold. I shoot them my best hands-off, ladies look. Not because I plan to have my hands ON. It’s just rude to stare at a man when he’s with another woman. Have they no common sense? Or self-preservation?
I can feel Pat’s gaze searing into me. The heat of it is like the blast of hot air that hits you when you leave an air-conditioned building in summer. He clears his throat, and I fist my napkin in my hands, trying to draw strength from the cheap magenta cloth. I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade of pretending Pat isn’t there. Resisting is like opening the hatch in an airplane and trying not to get sucked out.
“More chips?” Pat asks, and my self-control snaps.
Fine! I’ll look at him. Yes, he’s still handsome. Yes, that’s my favorite smirky smile. We’ve acknowledged it. Now, let’s move on.
“You seem hungry,” he continues, that smile rising just a fraction more.
Oh, we are, the feral cat purrs. We arrrrrrrre.
I knew there was a reason I’m a dog person.
“I should save room for dinner,” I say, taking a sip of water and sliding as far back as I can in the booth.
I fiddle with the salt shaker, but even in its rounded silver top, I can’t escape Pat’s face. Ugh! The man is a plague. A plague of total hotness.
“How did you get here?” I ask. “I heard you don’t have a car, just an ankle monitor. And how’d you get my number, anyway?”
“Chevy. On both counts.” He nods toward the bar.
My head snaps up, and Chevy waves from where he’s parked in front of the margarita machines and a TV showing some football game. The traitor! I hope my stare adequately conveys the ways in which he’ll pay for this later. It must, because he ducks his head and turns back to the television.
“So,” I say.
“A needle,” Pat answers with a broad grin, and my stomach flutters.
This is a game. OUR game. I’m supposed to say far next, to which he’ll add a long, long way. It’s our shorthand version of the famous song from The Sound of Music.
Back when Pat and I dated, we spoke our own language peppered with movie quotes and song lyrics. And though we spent little time with friends and none with family—per our rules—anyone hanging out with us for more than a few minutes got seriously irritated.
“Which brings us back to so.” My restrained smile has Pat practically wiggling with delight. The man is like an overgrown puppy sometimes. I wish it weren’t so endearing.
“You remember,” Pat says, his voice bright. I can only nod. His look turns assessing. “You just don’t seem to want to.”
I fumble for words, finally settling on the very lame, “It’s hard, looking back.”
Hard being with him. Hard not wanting to climb over the top of the booth to sit in his lap. Hard maintaining this emotional barrier, to keep the vest fastened tightly around my heart.
“I’m sorry,” Pat says. “I know I said it, but I can keep saying it until you believe it—I’m so sorry I hurt you.”
“You don’t have to keep saying it.”
What’s different about Pat now? I can’t quite put a name to it. Could it be—maturity?
Pat has maintained the same boyish charm, the effusive and effervescent joy that drew me to him in the first place. His dark eyes always seemed to hold mischief, and that hasn’t changed. There is the slightest crinkle now in their corners. Not laugh lines yet, but a hint of where they’ll be one day. He still has the broad shoulders, the sheer power barely contained by his clothes. He looks like a slab of perfectly cut stone, aged to perfection.
I’ve been staring too long. My eyes snap to his, waiting for a teasing comment asking if I like what I see.
“Are you sure you don’t want more chips?” Pat asks instead.