I could so easily flip my hand and take David’s, link our fingers together, smooth my palm over the calluses I was sure he had from his hobbies and profession.
Those were all reasons to pull away. I slid my hand from under his and picked up my pen to make notes.
Maybe David could see I didn’t open up easily, but what he didn’t know was that I’d worked hard to build these walls around my heart, and nobody, not even him, could bring them down over one lunch. “Also work,” I answered.
“I didn’t say work was my hobby, although I love my job. If work is yours, why? Do you ever write for the magazine?”
“When I need to,” I said. “I prefer editing.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
I almost laughed. “Are we? Why?”
“Most people I know want to be writers. It’s romantic, esteemed. Writers get the glory—but editors . . . very rarely do they get the credit they deserve.”
I glanced at the table. David had unknowingly just described much more than my career. That was mylife. My mother, a combustible artist, an award-winning novelist, loved the spotlight and knew how to put on a show, even when things crumbled behind the scenes.
That would never be me.
I held concepts and storylines and sentences together. Yet, I’d been unable to keep my family from falling apart.
“Or maybe there’s more to it than that,” David suggested, staring at my mouth. He didn’t hide his longing. What was it he craved? Did he want to . . . kiss me?
He licked his lips.
No.
This surpassedwant. He yearned. What for?
A peck on the cheek? To slide his tongue along the seam of my lips?
Maybe it wasn’t that innocent. Maybe he imagined my nude lips wrapped around his finger. Or myplump,dark, Ruby Red mouth, my Malbec-coated tongue, sucking until lipstick smeared all over his . . .
I vaulted back in the booth, knocked breathless by my uncharacteristically sordid thoughts. I wasn’t the type to get caught up in a fantasy, even in the dark. Much less in the middle of the day.
I forced myself back to our conversation—equally dangerous, but less likely to spur one of us to jump across the table and devour the other.
Something told me that the more I withheld from David, the harder he’d pry, so I volunteered something harmless. “Editing is methodical,” I explained.
He nodded, but his eyes remained on my mouth.
“Like a puzzle. There are rules, and—do I have lipstick on my teeth?”
His eyes darted up to mine. “No. Sorry. I heard every word. Editing soothes you. Writing scares you.”
“That’s not what I s—”
“What do you do forfun, Olivia?”
I sighed, slightly frustrated, mostly resigned. “I also volunteer at my local animal shelter most weekends.”
He crossed his arms on the table. “Do you have a pet?”
“No, I just love animals.” I bit my lip as I gave in to a smile. “I want a dog, but it’s not the right time.”
“Maybe in the suburbs,” he said evenly, not quite serious, but not teasing, either.
I nodded slowly. “Maybe. How about you?”
