“Something like that.”
I shake my head. “I’m going to need a little more than that, Fent.”
“It fits you, I think. It’s seems to wrap up everything I know about you.”
“You don’t know a lot about me.”
“I know more than you think. Your eyes tell me everything.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm. Even from your picture, I could see what a naughty little girl you were behind that innocent little smile.” He taps my lips with the pad of his finger. I snap at it, capturing it between my teeth, and pull it into my mouth. I suck it gently before releasing it.
His eyes darken. “If you want round three, keep it up.”
“Give me a few minutes and it’s a go.”
He chuckles, rolling onto his back too.
“So what do my eyes tell you?” I scoff, wondering how he has me pegged.
“Well, they tell me that you’re very intelligent. They’re assessing, calculating. And you’re kind, but have a mean streak a mile wide at times.”
“Wow. You’re better at this than I thought,” I laugh.
“See?” He slips his arm behind my neck and jostles me closer to him. “Rudo. It fits you to a tee.”
I love the comfortable feeling between us, no weird vibes or awkwardness at all. We’re lying side by side in towels after a thorough fucking, and it feels like I’ve known him my whole life.
He wants nothing from me but my time. He doesn’t push me and doesn’t corner me or give me lines that I know are complete bullshit. Everything with him is transparent and organic and that, in itself, is worth its weight in gold.
“You also have a great sense of humor. You like to think you’re the boss in your relationships.”
“Correction—I am the boss.”
“Not in this one.”
“Um, Fent. We aren’t in a relationship.”
He glances at me out of the corner of his eye. I’m not sure what he’s thinking or what that look is supposed to mean. I tighten my towel around my chest.
“True,” he admits.
“So tell me about you,” I say, shifting focus. I’m enjoying the lazy Sunday feel, even though it’s not Sunday, and I don’t want that to end. Seeing him so relaxed and carefree, especially after how he was a few hours ago, makes my heart sing. “What’s there to know?”
“Nothing, really. I’m pretty much a ‘what you see is what you get’ kind of guy.”
“Well, I like what I see,” I whisper.
A long pause stretches between us until, finally, he rolls back onto his side. He strums down the length of my arm with his fingers, watching the goose bumps pop up in response. “I like watching you react to me like that.”
“How can I not? You know all the buttons to push. You make it impossible.”
He shrugs, an unconvincing smile sliding across his cheeks. “I thought you weren’t going to fall in love with me?”
I grab a pillow and smash him in the face. He catches it and throws it behind him, laughing.
“I’m not in love with you,” I laugh.
“Sure you’re not.”
“I’m not! I’m just a woman that’s turned on by uber-sexy men. I mean, I’m sure women across the board react to you,” I giggle. “Look at you. You’re gorgeous. You’re smart. You’re charming.” I tap him on the end of his nose. “But even so, I’m not going to fall in love with you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because someone told me love doesn’t exist.”
“And someone told me it does. So I’d say the potential is there. I mean, look at me.”
I giggle and snuggle into the blankets and watch his eyes twinkle. “What?”
“I was just thinking how fun these last few days have been.”
“They have been, huh?”
He reaches out and brushes his knuckles against my cheek. “More than I even imagined.”
There’s a question that’s been on my mind and the time has never been right to ask it. The opportunity is wide open now, but I’m afraid of the response. I know my heart has bridged the gap from straight-up rebound to someone I could imagine seeing again, and his answer could feel like salt in an open wound if I don’t watch it. Taking a deep breath, I go for it anyway.
“Do you do this a lot?” I ask, my words out in a rush before I change my mind.
“Do what a lot?”
“Do this? Take a girl on a weekend.”
Whether he means to or not, he leans away a number of inches. He seems to consider his reply before giving it to me. “Not a lot. I have before, though.”
“Girlfriends? Or girls you met when you found their phones?” I try to make light of the situation, even though there’s a lump I cannot deny sitting squarely in the middle of my throat.
He grins. “You’re the first girl I’ve met in the produce department. But I’ve brought . . . I wouldn’t call them girlfriends, exactly. More like dates, I guess, along on trips.”
“Why dates?”
He shrugs, settling into the pillows. A mood settles over his face, a more somber one than I’ve seen this evening. “I don’t really have girlfriends.”