“Ouch. Wounded ego alert,” I say as I laugh too.
“I’m sorry. Honestly? You were charming. Youarecharming. And I enjoyed my night with you as well.”
She takes a breath, and I use the opportunity to jump in.
“Then why did you leave?” I ask. “I’m usually the one doing the leaving, and now I’m curious.”
“Because you have things to do today and so do I?—”
“You’re on vacation,” I interject.
“Don’t remind me.”
Despite the huff in her tone, I can hear her smile—which is a weird thing to be able to hear, but I can. Maybe it’s the subtle, quick breath or the way she ended the phrase with a softened lilt, but I can hear it. That makesmesmile.
“Last night was a one-night stand,” she says. “They aren’t my favorite encounters?—”
“There’s that word again.”
“But I’m not complaining about getting fucked this time.”
Hearing those words come out of her pretty little mouth sends a shot of adrenaline through my body.
“Let’s thank God for that,” I mumble as I adjust myself under my desk.
“As I was saying, they aren’t my favoritesituations,” she says, emphasizing the word, “but they do serve a purpose. Lingering around makes it less of a one-night stand and more like a date that went on too long, and now both parties are uncomfortable.”
Fair enough.
“I left,” she continues, “to maintain the integrity of our arrangement.”
“I didn’t know we had a particular arrangement.”
“It wasn’t a signed and sealed contract, by any means. But there was definitely an unspoken agreement between us. Don’t you think?”
Do I?
Generally, I’d say yes. That sleeping with a woman you just met constitutes something light and simple. All I’m positive about, though, is that I feel like I’m about to get into a contract dispute. And while I’m a great negotiator, I might be out of my depths with her. So I ignore her point and switch gears.
“How long are you in town? Through tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“How did you know that?”
“You told me in the airport.”
I think she smiles.
“By the time your new card arrives, you’ll be leaving,” I tell her. “There’s even a possibility of it not showing up until after you’re gone, and in that case, you’ll have two cards floating out there.”
“This is true,” she admits.
I have an opening. I just have to pick my way through it—and hand over the steering wheel—carefully.
Taking a deep breath, I choose my next words carefully.
“If you have a good two days—a day and a half at this point—left in Savannah, you’re going to need to eat,” I say, stroking her practical side. “Meet me for lunch. Get your card back. Enjoy the rest of your vacation.”
I tip my chair back farther and await her response. I have her considering my suggestion, which was a step I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to make.
