“What about you?” I ask, eager to shift the focus away from my own exposed emotions. “I’d ask if you come here often, but I think I already know the answer.”
I glance at the bartender, hinting at the familiarity he seems to have with James. His mouth twitches into a smile, the kind that always seems to leave me wondering what he’s not saying.
“Every Valentine’s Day,” he replies, and there’s a softness in his eyes, a moment of vulnerability that I rarely see.
His response catches me off guard. I want to know more, need to understand why he’d spend this day alone every year.
“Why?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.
He observes me, a penetrating look that makes me feel as if I’ve overstepped, pried too far. I’m about to retract my question when he inhales sharply, like he’s drawing strength before revealing a part of himself he usually keeps hidden.
“My mom died when I was sixteen,” he begins, his voice steady but carrying a depth of feeling that anchors me to each word. “She was sick.” He pauses, and I can almost see him lost in the memory.
“I watched my dad witness the love of his life wither away and die. He’s been heartbroken and lonely ever since, like a part of him died with her. Watching him go through that was hard,” he continues, his eyes distant as if caught between the past and the present.
His gaze searches mine, and despite the crowded bar, it feels like we’re the only two here.
“I swore I’d never let that happen to me, so I never get close enough to anyone to spend a day like today with them.” He takes a breath, the weight of his confession settling around us. “So I come here,” he finishes, and there’s an unexpected rawness in the way he speaks.
I don’t know what to say.
“I’m sorry,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper, sounding inadequate against the gravity of what he’s shared.
“Don’t be,” he replies, the restraint in his voice controlled but revealing the faintest hint of vulnerability beneath his polished exterior.
A long silence stretches between us, the kind that demands to be filled.
I want to break the tension, to restore some semblance of lighthearted banter, so I tease, “You’ve never had a girlfriend?”
I watch him carefully, gauging his reaction.
I like teasing James. He’s always so cool, so Mr. Perfect Picture of Professionalism, that it’s nice to see that tough exterior crack, watch him wrestle control of the situation when things don’t go exactly as he plans.
“I’ve had women I’m…friendly with,” he says, his tone suggestive as he lifts his drink, his unwavering eyes lingering on me over the rim.
They hold a meaning I can’t ignore, and my cheeks heat at the thought of what he’s insinuating. The notion that my teasing might have backfired leaves me flustered.
I struggle to regain my composure, not trusting my voice after what James just said. It’s too easy to picture him with these women. Even easier to picture myself as one of them, which is dangerous.
The clink of porcelain and cutlery interrupts my thoughts as the bartender places my tortellini in front of me.
The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I hesitate, my mind racing like crazy.
“Are you going to make me eat alone?” I ask before I can stop myself. I’m unsure if it’s the alcohol, his unexpected openness, or the long day that makes me so bold.
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Are you going to share?” he counters, a teasing tone to his voice.
He motions to the bartender to bring another plate and leans forward, resting his elbows on the counter. There’s an ease between us I didn’t expect, and for a moment I forget about any boundaries at all.
“So, just how many women are you friendly with?” I challenge, attempting to steal the upper hand. His eyes meet mine, a clash of intrigue and amusement.
“Not as many as you’re probably thinking.” His answer is almost playful. “I have certain…tastes,” he continues, his voice almost hesitant, like he’s testing how I’ll react.
Cryptic enough to intrigue me further, the words send a shiver of curiosity through me that borders on exhilaration.
“Ones that don’t suit some women.” His eyes don’t leave mine, gauging my response, perhaps aware of the effect he’s having on me.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to warn me off or pull me in.
