“I try to stay as disconnected as possible”—he looks up and around, away from my incredulous stare—“but nowadays, some electronic contact is a necessary evil.”
I shake my head but remain silent. He gives me a sheepish shrug. Ignoring the modern world is, in my opinion, ridiculous.What would drive someone to isolate themselves like that?I’m sure people in his life have put him through the ringer for this choice, so I won’t pile on…for now.
Instead, I remind myself that I have more important matters to get to the bottom of.
Like figuring out who this man is.
How else might I get a confirmation on his identity? An ID card?No, he wouldn’t have a valid ID for a pseudonym.I could do a signature match… I grab a crumpled white napkin from across the table and pop my head over the top of the booth. I see a pen discarded beside the check for the next table’s wings and fries. I stand up on our booth, hoping the waitstaff won’t think I’m endangering myself, and grab the writing utensil. As I go to spin and plop back down, I wobble more than expected on the plush seat. Devlin immediately wraps his hands around my lower thighs. I freeze and look down at him, pen in hand. He smiles up at me impishly. His grip is strong and the heat of his hands drifts upward to the apex between my legs.
“Thank you,” I stutter. He shrugs and releases one hand,which he then offers to me so I can lower myself back down more gracefully. I take his hand in mine. Once I’m safely back on the seat, he lets go of my other thigh. I wish he didn’t.
“So, what was that for?” he asks, one brow quirked and eyes sparkling. I take a deep breath and try to recover from the buzzing running up my legs. I slide the napkin and pen in front of him.
“Sign your name,” I demand.
His eyes remain narrowed as he tries to understand this test. “My real nam?—”
“No,” I cut in, “your other name.”
He raises his eyebrows, tilts his head in acquiescence and clicks open the pen. First attempt on paper draws no ink. He brings the tip of the pen up to his mouth and then stops. “Hmm”—he meets my gaze—“what’s in it for me?” The mischief in his eyes evident as he tosses my line from our correspondence back to me. “That is, if you deem my signature matches with this incredibly handsome and talented artist’s?”
“Well, what do you want?” I say, holding back an eye roll and biting the inside of my cheek.
“A kiss,” he replies with no hesitation.
My cheeks burn and his smile widens.
“You want to kiss me?” I whisper, causing him to lean in.
“Indeed, I do,” he responds. “Is it a deal?” He holds the pen up.
“Deal,” I breathe, unsure why I’ve taken so many risks with what I’ve said to this stranger. He gives a side smile and winks as he wets the tip of the pen with his tongue.
“That’s dirty!” I gasp like a child. Who knows where that pen’s been?
He gives me a devilish look. “Dirty you say?” He scrawls with a two-beat flourish, holding my gaze. Without breaking eye contact, he spins the napkin to face me. “I can think of worse. And I’m open to it,” he says in a low voice. I scrutinize the signature.It looks… right. I pull out my phone and google: “Devo Muse Painting.”
He continues speaking to me as I zoom in on a photo of the artist’s signature in the corner of a painting.
“The question is”—he continues hovering above me—“are you?” The signatures are damn near identical. And he’d written on that napkin without looking down. Unless he’s a psychopath who’s blindly practiced forging this name… this man before me is… “Devo,” I gasp aloud.
“At your service.” He mock-tips an invisible hat. “Glad to meet you, for the third time.” I try not to look like a deer in headlights, but my eyes are as wide as saucers and my mouth is ajar. I try to compose myself. He puts his hands up at chest height, palms facing me. “Don’t worry, I won’t claim my prize now.” My heart pounds. He leans in and tips my chin up with a curled finger. “But Iwillclaim it.”
The second half of the night consists of more drinks consumed by both of us, a short stint on the dance floor, and shared stories about our favorite artists and works in progress. Turns out Devo paints more than just beautiful women. His other work just isn’t famous.
There are some nasty looks from Daisy throughout the night, but Devlin keeps his eyes on me. He dances with me, running his hands up the sides of my body as we sway with the crowd to more early 2000s music. He whispers compliments in my ear. It’s intoxicating, literally.
“Your hips are incredible,” he says while passing around the other side of me, running his hands down my sides. In any other circumstance, I’d feel shy or smothered, but with Devlin, I feel comfortable and adored. I sway even more to the beat, emphasizing my lower curves. We both laugh.
Daisy is dancing with another tall sandy blonde fellow now, but with occasional glares in our direction. She’s not even hiding it. Poor girl. She should have been sending her next crush lettersin the mail for weeks like me. And did I have a crush on Devlin? Absolutely. I still have a thimbleful of skepticism, and of course, a hearty amount of self-protection mechanisms that could trigger at a moment’s notice. But for now, tipsy and shaking my booty at McArthur’s in front of an attractive man with a gorgeous smile and an air of ease… I’m just going to savor the fun of the moment.
After blindly belting the lyrics to too many songs played at my high school dances, I finally take stock of the group and realize I’ve lost Devlin. I crane my neck and see he’s back at our booth, leaning on the table. He’s looking down and his face reflects a faint glow, presumably from his stone-age phone.
I tilt my head and watch for a moment. He could be texting anyone, a lover even. I don’t know what his personal life is like. I stop dancing and take a deep breath, trying not to let my pessimism bring me down from the fun of the last couple hours. Suddenly, he looks up from his phone and glances toward the door, craning his neck. He starts making his way there, cutting through the crowd with a purpose. Leaving, I presume.
My heart drops. He’s bailing without saying goodbye to me. I don’t know why I thought he’d tell me before he left. There’s nothing between us.We’ve just fucking met, I think. Flirting doesn’t mean something is owed; I know that. I just thought in this case, it might mean something more. Alex sees my face fall and comes up to me to put his hand on my shoulder.
“You alright there, mate?” he half-shouts. “Something wrong?”
