“We’re not on a date.” His definitive tone leaves no room for argument.
Well, that’s a blow to the ego. Not that I expected us to be on a date. Just because he’s the first nice guy I’ve been around in years doesn’t make him my potential date.
“Mmhmm. Sure, you aren’t. I know a first date when I see one.” She scribbles something onto her pad, probably adding my name to her ever-growing mental matchmaking list.
“Don’t mess it up, handsome. Trust me, this girl’s a keeper.”
My fingers toy nervously with the rim of my cup. “Well, that was Dee Dee. She’s the owner of this diner. Sheand Pop have been running this place for as long as I can remember. She’s a little bit much.” I chuckle, thinking back to all the times Claire and I sat in this diner talking about boys. I wonder if I’ll be back here with her soon, talking about my captor. The captor, who is turning out to be a sweet softie, versus his kidnapping intention. Even though logic is telling me this is dangerous, something deep inside me is saying he’s safe, he’s steady, and I can trust him.
16
Aiden
Dee Dee’s words hang in the air. “Don’t mess it up, handsome. Trust me, this girl’s a keeper.” Her sneakers squeak against the linoleum as she moves to the next booth.
It has been so easy sitting here chatting with her, forgetting what I’m actually supposed to be doing—exposing her true nature. Our conversation flows so effortlessly, no strain or awkward silences. She’s relaxed, like she’s in her natural element, as she fires question after question at me. There’s this calm air between us; it makes me want to share all my secrets, every unpolished thought I usually keep locked away. A companionship I didn’t realize I had been missing, craving, until now.
“Do you have any pets?” She resumes her questioning between bites of her pancakes.
“Yeah,” I mutter casually, though my lips twitch despite myself. “His name’s Jake.”
Her brows lift, eyes narrowing as though she’s about to pounce. “Dog or cat?”
“Dog,” I answer, my smirk breaking free as I think about my mischievous canine companion.
“Jake?” she repeats, like it’s a revelation. “That’s a very human name for a dog. Aren’t dogs supposed to have cute nicknames like Biscuit, Waffles, or Sparky?” she teases. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s leaning in closer, and without my brain’s consent, my own body leans in, too.
I smirk. “He was originally named Butterscotch, but I wasn’t going to be calling him that.”
The sound of her giggle hits somewhere deep, catching me off guard. It’s soft, breathy, and for some reason, my body reacts before my brain catches up. Thank god for the table between us.
“Yeah, I can’t see a guy like you walking around the park saying ‘Butterscotch.’”
My curiosity gets the better of me before I can stop it. “A guy like me? What kind of guy is that?”
She freezes. Just for a second. She’s staring at her pancakes like they’re going to sprout legs and walk away, her teeth catching her bottom lip like she regrets lettingsomething slip. For the first time since she’s been in my car, she seems almost shy. Interesting.
“Oh, you know,” she says, fidgeting, “big, broody, built like he could lift a car—but probably apologizes when he bumps into people.”
I bite back a laugh. “Lift a car?”
She winces, shy and awkward, like the second those words left her mouth, she wished she could pull them back. “I mean, you just have that look,” she adds quickly, cheeks flushing pink. “Not that I think about you lifting cars or bumping into people. Or at all, really.”
Her rambling is pure entertainment, and I can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Right,” I say, leaning back just enough to watch her squirm. “Definitely not thinking about me.”
Her lips press together, and she hides behind her cup like it’s a shield. “Glad we’re on the same page,” she mumbles.
She’s cute when she’s flustered. The kind of cute that makes my brain short-circuit and my chest feel too tight. I should look away, stop staring, stop noticing how her hair falls forward when she ducks her head or how the corner of her mouth curves when she’s trying not to smile. But I don’t.
Instead, I take a slow sip of coffee and let the moment stretch.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, just for a second, and something in my chest gives a traitorous lurch.
I’m so screwed.
Because this isn’t supposed to be happening. I shouldn’t care if she blushes or fumbles over her words. I shouldn’t want to keep her talking just to see how many shades of pink her cheeks can turn. But here I am, sitting across from her, fighting a losing battle against a smile that refuses to die.
