The waitress saves me by returning to slam our drinks on the table. “Your pizza will be out soon. Anything else?”
When I make no move to raise my head or reply, Kingston answers her. “I believe we’re fine for now, thank you.”
I need a drink—something to cool me down, and quench the dryness in my mouth—but I remain frozen in embarrassment.
“Echo,” he says gently, “please look at me.”
I lift only my eyes, gauging his sincerity while remaining guarded for another onslaught of blatant sexuality.
“Forgive me—too far, I know. I often lose my head around you, and I apologize for that. I’d never purposely offend or embarrass you. It’s just…I’m a man, and you’re…” He blows out a frustrated breath and runs one hand through his dark hair.
“I’m what?” I’m pretty sure I ask aloud.
“You’re everything everyone else is not, and I’d be wise to remember that.” Why does he look so sad as he says it?
“So,” he continues, forcing a casual smile in what I assume is an attempt to ease the tension, “tell me something I don’t know about you, sweet Echo.”
The sudden change in subject, and lack of flirty infliction, jerk me out of the trance I’d been falling into. “Um, like what?”
“Hmm.” He rubs his jaw, thinking. “What about your plans after graduation? Do you have a uni picked out? A major?”
“No and no,” I groan, looking at him fully. “Pathetic, I’m well aware. It’s just…I’m torn.”
“Between what?” He sips his soda, and my eyes follow every movement of his lips.
“Well…” I blink and take a big drink myself, choosing my next words carefully. “I adore my family. And just between you and me, I feel bad anytime I think about leaving them.”
“They would want you to be happy,” he says immediately. And I know it’s the truth, but the pang of guilt remains.
“That’s why I’m torn. I’m loyal to my family, but I’m also a free spirit who’s never had an actual taste of freedom. Does that make sense?”
“Absolutely.” His smile is soft, understanding, and without judgment.
I can’t help my tiny, grateful return grin before adding, “I love artistic things: words, expression, movement. I want to see and breathe beauty somewhere bigger than myself, where everywhere I look there’s inspiration.”
I’m about to apologize for my rambling when our food arrives.
“Um, I think they forgot the cheese,” Kingston deadpans, and I laugh so hard I snort. I find myself doing that a lot lately, and never once has he teased me about it or seemed put off.
It’s funny, because a Fool’s Gold is just that: a gluttonous pile of six different cheeses that only a fool would think is gold rather than an inevitable clogged artery. It’s delicious.
And he must agree, because after we both take our first bites, any and all conversation ceases to exist.
~~~~~
Kingston leans back, rubbing his abs and moaning. “Was that the arse-kicking you meant—filling my stomach to the point of severe pain?”
“I told you not to have that third slice,” I scold.
“I thought that was the contest! You had two, so I had to beat you. Evil, Echo.” He shakes his head. “Evil.”
“Nuh-uh. You psyched yourself out on that one. I said nothing of the sort. Your ass-kicking starts now.”
I grin and scoot out of the booth, extending my hand to help him out of his side.
He brushes it away and glares at me playfully. “I’m still capable of standing by myself.”
And he does. But then, once beside me, he finds my hand he’d just refused and squeezes it. “I’m ready. What’s next?”
“Follow me,” I taunt, leading him to the room in the back of the pizza parlor that’s concealed by black drapes.
“And the beautiful temptress led him blindly into a private room in the back, cloaked in curtains, yet he gladly followed.”
His hand flexes around mine, and I look over my shoulder to find that his sultry expression indeed matches the suggestive tone in his voice.
“Settle down, sex fiend. The only action you’ll be getting back here is…” I drop his hand to throw open the curtains with flair. “The wrath of Echo, Queen of the Arcade!”
We walk farther into the room and I focus on his face, delighted by the wonderment in his eyes and emerging smile as he takes it all in. Every old game you can imagine is before us: Galaga, Pac-Man, Centipede, Joust, and Q*bert (my personal favorite), as well as various pinball machines, air hockey, Skee-Ball, and—wait for it—Whac-A-Mole!
“Pick your poison, Mr. Hawthorne,” I challenge. “I can, and will, conquer you in any choice you make.”
I throw in an evil “Ah, ah, ah!” laugh, which admittedly falls short since it sounds more like The Count on Sesame Street tallying peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches than anything remotely resembling evil.
He takes both my hands and pulls me toward him, his hard chest pressed against the sudden fluttering in my own. He bends his head so our foreheads touch, licking his lips slowly, then murmurs, “What’s the prize?”