He pushes his plate to the side as I stew. He cannot still be hung up on that cunt booger … can he? “I’m so sorry, Brooks. Are you still … you know … in love with her?”
Laughter erupts from his mouth—deep and hurried—a tiny droplet of his spit landing on my wrist that I want to lick from my skin. “Fuck no. I’ve been over her.”
I make a “hmm” noise, my involuntary brow raise cluing him in that I’m unconvinced. “I’m not just saying that. I hate what she did, but I don’t hate her. Not anymore, anyway. I’m not the least bit in love with her, though.”
I smile. Scoop my last forkful of macaroni into my mouth. “Have you dated anyone since?” My tone is playful and confident, yet seeking. “Found a rebound yet?”
He shakes his head. “Nah. Haven’t been interested.”
Relief. I was fairly certain he hadn’t. I’ve kept moderate tabs on him, but there’s always room for surprises in life. Just look at Eliza.
“Speaking of rebounds and stuff—I just wanted to say I think it was fucked up what happened between you and Deacon and how he got back with Kara. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
I lift a shoulder nonchalantly. Ugh. I don’t want to talk about Deacon, that fucking drug addict. “Honestly, I don’t think that situation would have progressed, anyway.”
“Really? You seemed really into him.”
“I was at first, but … things change.”
“Gotcha. I won’t pry.” He sounds satisfied, and the cloud of doom clears from above me.
“Thanks.” I swirl my empty glass, the ice clinking together.
“You want another?”
“If you don’t have anywhere to be.”
“No plans on my end, so yeah, unless you have a curfew.”
His wink makes me laugh, and makes my nipples harden just a bit. “Definitely don’t have one of those, though Lucy does need to be let out at night.”
“Oh.” His mouth drops in what could be interpreted as disappointment. Hopefully. “I can take you home now if you need to go.”
Jesus, those eyes, how clear and bright. I want to fuck him so badly. Ravage him, make love to him, introduce him to Pussy Jansen—anything that involves him and me naked. I have the bluest lady balls ever, and I need release. I wish I could skip to that part, but then again, I want to savor every moment of our journey like a slow-building climax. “Not until I get that second drink.”
He smiles, his head searching the bar. He holds up a hand to flag our server, and orders another round for us. Hands her one hundred bucks.
After the drinks are delivered, he grabs his beer, and stands. Motions for me. “Come on. Let’s go watch the band.”
I pick up my drink, deciding to be brave and hold out the other hand for him to grab. He takes it. Closes it around my own—his fingers lukewarm and damp, the connection giving me goosebumps. Is he nervous, maybe? I wiggle myself out of the booth, but then his hand disappointingly let’s go of mine. We weave our way to the bar, and I’m certain—okay, praying—he’ll take my hand again. But he doesn’t. Instead, we take swigs of our drinks, the music blaring into my ears, and the odd patron bumping into my shoulders.
Our bodies sway to the modern blues, a song about love gone wrong. I peek at him, hoping I don’t find hints of longing on his face—for his relationship with Eliza prior to it going rancid. Despite how fucked up things were, part of me wonders if he’s one of those people who subscribes to the notion that ignorance is bliss. Maybe he spends his nights drinking, wishing the affair had unfolded differently. The baby meant done. But … what if the baby hadn’t existed?
“...and I wonder what I did to have you do me so wrong...”
He tenses on that last line. Yes, he definitely did. I saw it, the stressing of his skin over his jaw. God. Is he not over it?
“You okay?” he whisper-screams.
“Fine!” I yell back.
I don’t know what I expect—him to put his arm around me, pull me in for a side hug or something? But he does nothing. We stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and it’s as if I’m not even here.
“I miss your touch, your smile. But you’re long gone...”
The droop of his eyes and subsequent abandonment of his untouched beer on the counter are worrisome. I chug my drink. Put my glass down, too. His hands jerk to his pockets, searching, like his phone is ringing. He holds it long enough to peek at it, his eyes briefly widening before he puts it back.
Odd.
“Let’s get out of here,” he says.
“Okay.” But it isn’t okay. It’s terrible. Who was it? And why are we going? The music just started. Doesn’t he want to spend time with me? Doesn’t he want more clam?
In the parking lot, his walk is brisk and with purpose, shoes slinging pebbles with every step. I struggle to keep up. His demeanor has suddenly flipped so much that I almost think he’s not going to open the car door for me, but he does.
“All right if I take you home now?” His words are tense, his eyes are serious—like there’s no room for objection. Not even if I said, “Only if we’re having sex.”
“Of course.” I keep calm and smile, rubbing my arms to warm them up.
It’s clear something is on his mind, and I can’t stop racking my brain as to what it might be, so I don’t bother to engage him on the drive back. This first date has totally gone south. I don’t want to tell our grandkids that!
When the car comes to a stop in my driveway, he stares straight ahead, knuckles tense on the steering wheel. Lucy’s bark flows through the cracked windows.
I grab my purse from the floorboard. Put the strap over my shoulder. My hand moves to the handle, but he ends up opening the door for me again. The walk to the porch and up the steps occurs in painful slow motion, every sweep of our feet a repeat of “Will we kiss?” playing in my mind.
“Thanks for tonight,” I say, as we reach the door. “I had a good time.”
“Yeah, no problem.” Wow. I can’t even get a Me too?
Finally, his eyes find me. His mouth curls into a smile. Hmm.
“What?” I ask, instinctively stepping closer.
Lucy’s barking escalates, followed by the spark of a neighbor’s porch light.
“Uh oh.” His eyes move to the pristine bungalow across the street. “Looks like you’d better get in there.”
“Do you want to come in?” My mouth blurts the words before my brain can process what I just asked.
Brooks draws in a sharp breath, bottom lip pulling under his teeth. “Uh...” he hesitates, turning his head to the door.
His phone rings, the default chime shrill and uninvited. Again, he takes it out enough to see who is calling. Returns it to his pocket.
“Sorry, I think I gotta call it a night.”
Damn, really? I smile, thinly but politely. “It’s okay. Lucy doesn’t sound like she wants to share me tonight, anyway.” I pull my key from my purse, stick it in the lock, and push the door open.
“Well, you have my number. Let me know if you have any other problems with the disposal, and I’ll put a new one in. Probably wouldn’t be worth fixing at that point.”
“Sounds good.” My hand lingers on the doorknob.
He clears his throat. Shifts on his feet before snaking an arm around my neck and leaning in for an awkward I’m-not-sure-what’s-appropriate hug. My cheek presses against his neck, the stubble on his face rough against my temple. That smell from before—the one I detected when I’d first gotten into his car. It’s barely there, just a hint on his skin. Something powdery, something sexy, something … feminine.
My veins chill at the realization he could have been with a woman before he came here—that he could be going to a woman after he leaves here. Is that why he’s leaving? Is he seeing someone?
Did he … lie to me?
No. Brooks wouldn’t lie, not about something like that—not after what he’s been through. I’m jumping to conclusions. It’s a natural reaction when you love someone.
He releases me from the hug. Turns for the steps. “Good catching up with you.” His eyes stay locked with mine.
“Same,” I mutter, wanting to stab him with my keys. Catching up. Oh God, the friendliness is killing me. This wasn’t a date. At all. Not even close.
I watch him bounce down the steps, not looking back like you would at someone you loved … or even liked.
I step in my living room. Slam the door shut.
This may be way fucking harder than I thought.