“Yes, but I generally try not to say it like that. It sounds so misanthropic.”
I relaxed. “Is that all it is? One of the directors for a charity I work for is like that. She’s super antitouchy, but she’s also a germophobe, so I’ve learned to not touch anything in her office.”
“I’m not that bad,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t back away if people touch me—at least not normally. It’s just when I’m taken by surprise that I react without thinking.”
“So... if I was to put my hand on you now, you wouldn’t react?” I asked, eyeing his chest. For some reason, it seemed to hold an unholy fascination for me. I couldn’t help but imagine it naked. The hint of reddish brown hair peeping from the top of his shirt told me he wasn’t a hairless wonder, but also wasn’t the Amazing Monkey Man.
His lips twisted into a half smile. “I can’t promise that, but I wouldn’t flinch.”
I stared at him in surprise for a moment. “Did you just flirt with me?”
“What?” He looked startled. “No. Did I? I’m not sure now.”
“You said you couldn’t promise you wouldn’t react if I touched you. I just want to know if you meant that like you might have a nice reaction.” I glanced over at the others, but no one was even looking in our direction. “Like a turn-you-on sort of touch.”
He cleared his throat. “As to that, I suspect it would depend on how you were touching me.”
“OK.” I pursed my lips a little, not to entice him, but because that’s what I did when I thought hard. “I’m going to touch you now.”
“Very well.” He straightened up.
“Well, that’s not going to help,” I told him.
“What isn’t?”
“Standing there all stiff like you’re facing the firing squad.” I put my hand on his biceps. “Relax. Breathe. Nothing bad is going to happen.”
He visibly relaxed, and even gave me a little smile. “You’re making too much of what is really just an annoying personality quirk.”
“I’m not the one who flinched when I leaned in to you.” I smiled reassuringly at him. “Second hand coming in for a landing.”
“I shall endeavor to survive the experience,” he said in that plummy English accent that made me feel all warm and fuzzy. I put my other hand on his chest.
“Well? What are you feeling?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Hungry. I missed breakfast.”
“Nothing... erotic?”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” I took my hands off him, giving him a friendly smile. “It wasn’t meant to be erotic, so I think you’re fine, mentally speaking, except for the personalspace issue, which a lot of people have, to be honest.”
“Thank you for that diagnosis. Are you... erm... doing anything for dinner?”
“Good lord, Dixon,” I said, feigning amazement. “First you flirt with me, and now you’re asking me out to dinner? Whatever will be next? Holding hands in Times Square? Necking in the back of the Thomas Flyer? Rubbing your naked chest against mine while stroking your hand up my leg, your mouth nibbling on that sweet spot behind my left ear, and your other hand gently, oh so gently toying with my nipple?”
The silence that followed that was really loud.
“That was strangely specific,” he said at last.
“Sorry,” I said, fanning myself. “I have a very active imagination.”
“I see.” To my utter delight, he waggled his eyebrows for a few seconds. “You never know what might happen, although I suspect Roger will not approve of racers engaging in those sorts of activities.”
“Are you kidding? Have you never seen reality TV?”
“No, I don’t watch much TV at all.”
