“You got a pen?”
I tear my eyes from the exchange that’s causing me more pain than it should. Swallowing the angry persistent lump forming in my throat, I stare at the red and black laminated menu as if there’s going to be a test on it.
The jingle of the waitress’s bracelets as she hands Gavin a pen grinds against my exposed nerves. I know in my logical mind that I’m on the verge of losing it for no real reason. But logic has never had much say when it comes to my feelings for Gavin.
It’s when he takes her hand and slowly slides up the sleeve of her dress shirt so that he can write on her wrist that I lose my mind completely. The table rattles with the vibration of my suddenly jerking knee. I release it and exhale slowly, quietly, in an attempt to have my jungle-cat jealous-rage breakdown as discreetly as possible.
“That’s my number . . .”
“Marissa,” she offers helpfully.
“Marissa,” he says slowly, giving her his trademark panty-dropping grin and gifting her a look at his stupid fucking dimple. “You just shoot me a text—or call so I can hear that pretty voice—when y’all get to the festival and I’ll make sure you get a front-row spot when we go on.”
I snort because we don’t have that kind of control over the crowd. We barely even made it here. But then I feel sick because I’m sure he’s giving her his number so he can give her a private show. Bile rises in my throat as they make let’s-get-naked eyes at each other. The fist squeezing the heck out of my heart finally loosens its grip just as he releases her wrist so that she can get our drinks.
Gavin turns back to me like I haven’t been sitting here for three and a half minutes plotting his gruesome death with flatware.
“So whatcha gettin’?”
My chest heaves with the effort it takes to sit still and breathe air instead of lunging across the table. I lower my menu and give setting him on fire with my glare a try.
“Bluebird? I asked what you were—” His words die in his throat when he meets my narrowed eyes. “Um, you okay?”
Focus, Dixie Leigh.
“You never touch me,” I say evenly, surprised that I don’t sound nearly as crazed as I feel.
“What?” He glances down at his menu as if it will contain an explanation of some sort.
“You never touch me. We’ve known each other for ten years and you don’t casually sling your arm across my shoulders, or link arms with me, or hold my hand when we’re walking together. You don’t hug me or put your hand on the small of my back.”
Gavin clears his throat and glances to the side like a cornered animal, probably looking for the nearest escape route. “Okay. So I don’t touch you. So what? Can we order now?”
Reaching across the table I lower the menu he’s holding up like a shield. “So you’ve known that waitress for five seconds and you caressed her arm like it was your dick. And yet we’ve known each other for forever and you never touch me.”
I watch as his eyes widen and the knot in his throat rises and falls. “Please tell me you’re joking. Do you seriously want to do this right now?”
“Just tell me why. Tell me why you have no problem putting your hands on a complete stranger and you avoid touching me as if I’m diseased, which I’m not, for the record.”
“You know good and damn well I don’t think you’re diseased.” His expression hardens and I can’t read it. It almost looks as if he thinks I’m playing dumb, like I already know the answer.
I scoff at him. “Don’t blame it on Dallas. I hardly think he’d lose his mind just because you put your arm around me or something.”
His hooded gaze gets even darker and I’m confused. The waitress returns with our drinks but Gavin doesn’t look away from me to acknowledge her.
“Are y’all ready to—”