He nods. “I went to community and took some courses, met this guy who was trying to start a band and wanted a website for his so-called fans, of which he had maybe, I dunno, ten? He firmly believed he was going to be a huge star. I designed his website for him and he loved it, told all of his friends about it. Turned out the guy had a lot of friends. Like, a ton, and they were all starting up businesses and wanted websites and banners for social media. My business sort of grew from there.”
“That’s amazing,” I breathe, impressed. “You’re so lucky.”
“I consider myself pretty lucky, that I’m able to make a living out of something I love to do.”
“So it keeps you busy.”
His expression turns almost bashful. “I have a two-month wait list.”
“Wow, you must be very good at your job.” Now I’m definitely impressed.
“When I find something I enjoy, I throw myself into it wholeheartedly. It’s like I almost become . . . obsessed.” Now he looks guilty. It seems odd. “I probably shouldn’t admit that to you.”
“Why not?”
“I sound like a freak.”
“No, you sound like someone who is passionate.” My cheeks burn at saying the word and I tell myself to get over it.
“When I was in school, it was sports,” he admits. “I was obsessed with any sport that ended in ball. Baseball, football, basketball. It’s all I wanted to do.”
That explains his athletic build. “Do you still play any of them?”
“Nah, not really. I had to quit so I could work. I, uh, I needed the money, so I had to give up all of my after-school activities. Every waking hour that I wasn’t in school, I tried to fill with various jobs.” He presses his lips together, like he didn’t want to just admit that, and I know the feeling.
“Sounds like you eventually found something else to shine in, then,” I say, wanting to reassure him, make him feel better.
“Yeah, I guess so.” He takes a drink of his water and I study him, noting the way the light from the candle sitting in the middle of our table casts him in golden shadow. He’s incredibly handsome in a raw-boned, rough-hewn way. All those sharp angles and the solid jawline, offset by that glorious mouth of his. And it really is glorious, soft and full looking. I’ve never really stared at a man’s mouth before. Never really knew one could be so beautiful, almost feminine in the midst of masculine features. Not that he’s feminine, not at all, but I like the softness. It draws me in. Makes me wonder what it might be like to . . .
“What kind of music do you like to listen to?” he asks, interrupting my thoughts.
My cheeks feel hotter and I hope he doesn’t notice. Thank goodness the restaurant is relatively dark. “Are we playing twenty questions now?”
He shrugs, looking faintly embarrassed. “Just trying to get to know you.”
I immediately feel like a jerk. I shouldn’t be so defensive. He’s not out to get me. Not out to dig up any lurid facts, and I have a ton of them. “Is it wrong to admit I like anything that’s popular on the radio?”
“You still listen to the radio?” He’s teasing. I can tell by the glint in his eyes.
“Sometimes.” When he just looks at me I admit, “Fine, I love the iHeartRadio app.”
He laughs. “Who’s your favorite band or singer?”
“Don’t laugh,” I warn him, and he holds his hands up defensively. “You’re going to laugh.”
“I won’t,” he says solemnly.
“Promise?”
“Promise.” He swallows, I see his throat move, and something washes over me at his words, the way he’s watching me, his expression serious, his eyes so incredibly dark. I feel like we’ve said these words to each other before, though in a much more serious manner. I’m having a total déjà vu moment.
It makes me think of Will and for some inexplicable reason, I feel almost unfaithful to him, sharing this night, these words, with Ethan.
“I really, really love . . .” My voice drifts as I draw out the moment. “Katy Perry.”
His lips twitch, like he’s trying to hold in the laugh that wants to escape, and I point at him. “You promised.”
Again he holds up his hands defensively. “I did. No laughing allowed.”
I shake my head and drop my hands into my lap, clutching at the white cloth napkin still lying there. “It’s lame, right?”
“Never.” His lips twitch again.
I ignore the twitch and decide to tell the truth. “I just find her songs so empowering. Like ‘Roar.’ She wants people to hear her roar, you know?” Now I just sound ridiculous, but I really do find power in words. Written words. Books and poems and songs. Since I’ve always felt like I have no power, I like to look for it in other places. That way I do feel strong, at least for a little while.
However temporary it may be.
“Has anyone ever heard you roar?” he asks, his deep voice low and quiet, sending a scattering of goosebumps across my skin.
I slowly shake my head. “Not really. I’m pretty quiet.”
“You’re not quiet with me.”