“I’m definitely not disappointed,” I say with a soft huff of laughter. Am I flirting? I didn’t think I knew how to do that. Maybe it’s just coming naturally.
“Good.” His eyes squint a little when he smiles and I can’t help but find it attractive. He’s attractive. And large, so broad and tall, with long legs and arms, the muscular shoulders, the wide chest. The round table we’re sitting at is small and his legs seem to sprawl everywhere, taking up every inch of his allotted space and some of mine, too.
But I don’t scoot my chair away from him. I don’t try to withdraw. I stand my ground, enjoying the way his foot seems to nudge against mine every few minutes, the brush of our jeans-clad legs sending a spark of fire across my skin when it happens. It’s weird, but he feels both familiar and new, comfortable and thrilling, all at once. I don’t get it.
“So how long have you lived here?” I ask, trying my best to make small talk, something I’m not very good at.
His eyes slide away from mine to stare out the window at the ocean spread out before us, and he works his jaw. “Um, we came here when I was nine. My family and I.”
“Oh.” I nod, wondering why he doesn’t seem very comfortable. Have I already blown it? Pried when I shouldn’t have? God, I don’t know how to do this, how to be casual and talk to a guy. I’m freaking pitiful. “Can I ask how old you are?” I’m sure that’s a faux pas, too, but who cares. I’m too curious to worry about it.
“Twenty-three.” His gaze meets mine once more and he leans across the small table, putting himself into my personal space yet again. It’s like he can’t help himself and I don’t mind, because now I can smell him. Feel the warmth radiating from him in palpable waves. For some reason I want to get close to that warmth. I can’t explain why. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” I answer. And never been kissed. You’re my first real date and you probably don’t even count this as one.
“A legal adult then.” He leans back in his chair, his gaze still locked on mine. “It’s not all that it’s cracked up to be, is it?”
I shrug. Take another sip of my drink before I answer. “I don’t feel like an adult, if that’s what you mean. But I’m thankful I’m not a child any longer, either.”
The light dims in his gaze and for a panic-stricken moment, I wonder if I said too much. “Didn’t have a great childhood?”
“It was okay when I was really young. Once I hit my teen years . . .” I don’t finish the sentence. I don’t need to. For some reason, I think he might understand. Does anyone think their teen years were easy? Probably not.
Mine were just abnormally awful.
“I get it,” he says with a nod, and relief hits me square in the chest when I hear those three words. “Most of the time, being a teenager fucking sucks.”
I burst out laughing, shocked and pleased by his blatant description. “Well, you don’t mince words.”
“What’s the point?” He shrugs those broad shoulders. “I’m just being honest.”
“Are you always honest?” The pointed question makes him pause and I realize that I’m not good at this. Not at all. I ask invasive questions or ones guys don’t want to answer.
“I try to be,” he says after a moment’s pause. His eyes darken, as if an ominous cloud drifted past them, and I wonder why. “As best that I can.”
I say nothing. It’s not my place to judge, to have expectations. We’re two people who met over strange circumstances and are now having coffee together. That’s it. Once we’re finished I’ll get in my car and drive back home. Never to see him again. I’m fine with that.
Really.
An hour later, I walk her back to her car. The wind had whipped up almost violently while we were inside the coffeehouse, and now it knocks into us as we head down the sidewalk, our heads bent, our bodies leaning forward. She wraps her arms around her middle, a visible shiver racking her body, and I wish I could slip my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me. Share my warmth, hold her close.
More like I just want to hold her close.
She stops directly in front of her car and turns to smile at me tentatively. “Thank you again for the coffee. And the conversation.”
We’d chatted easily, though at times she’d seemed uncomfortable. She also asked me questions that were tough to answer, which in turn made me uncomfortable. I tried my best to brush it off. Blame it on her not dating much because I know she hasn’t. Being with her, spending time with her one-on-one like I’ve been doing, I can tell.
It was her question about being honest that got me. Has stuck with me no matter how much I’ve tried to shake it. I’m an asshole for giving her some bogus answer. I’m an asshole liar.