“It’s not that I’m mad about that. I mean, he probably had a point.” She doesn’t break eye contact, but seems to hesitate. I wait for her to finish, to form whatever thought is on her mind.
“Have you ever woken up one day and realized that maybe your gut has been steering you wrong all along?” she asks. “Like you thought you wanted one thing, and you made all these decisions to get there, but it turns out that’s not what you wanted at all?”
A big ball of iron coils up in the pit of my stomach, but I push it aside and nod. “Yeah. I think I know what you’re saying.”
“I want something different. Something that’s the total opposite of what I’m used to.”
“And that’s me?”
“Maybe. For tonight anyway.” She gives a nervous little laugh and tosses her hair. “I guess I just feel like maybe I’ve missed out on doing a few things. And maybe guys like you are one of them.”
“Guys like me,” I repeat, forcing myself to keep an even voice. “How do you mean that?”
I watch her face, braced for the words.
Dumb. Low-class. Unsophisticated.
“Hot.” She blinks like she’s surprised herself with the word, then grins. “Big. Strong. A little rough around the edges, but in a sexy way.”
It’s my turn to be surprised, and I buy myself a few seconds by reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I let my hand linger by her ear, admiring the perfect shell of it. Pearl studs glisten on her lobes, and I wonder what it would feel like to run my tongue from there to the base of her throat.
“For what it’s worth,” I murmur. “Gary doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
“Oh?”
“You’re smokin’ hot.”
She smiles, but it’s a little uncertain. “Thank you.”
“Like, seriously hot. Hotter than a non-consumable tungsten electrode used in gas-tungsten arc welding.”
“What?” She bursts out laughing, throwing her whole body forward and bumping my forearm with her breast. Every nerve in my body flickers to life.
I expect her to pull back, but instead, she leans into me. Her thigh moves against mine, and my breath catches in my throat as her skirt hikes up three inches.
“Welding,” I say, almost forgetting what we were talking about. “That’s a type of high temperature welding used for things like motorcycle or bike repair.”
“You’re a welder?”
I can’t tell if there’s judgment or intrigue in the question, so I decide not to answer for now. I like having her this close, feeling the weight of her thigh on mine. Her breast still brushes my bicep, and I resist the urge to press against it.
“You’re also hotter than a molten weld puddle shielded by an argon/carbon dioxide mix in flux-cored arc welding,” I murmur.
“Molten weld puddle and—what?”
The question comes out a little breathless, and I notice the flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. She’s staring at me like she can’t believe the words coming out of my mouth.
Neither can I.
“It’s another type of welding used for thicker materials or steel erections,” I say and watch her lips part. “Also, very hot,” I add.
“I—oh.” She shifts on the sofa, a funny little squirm that brings her even closer. Her thigh rests on top of mine now, and I wonder if she’s noticed. I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose, or just pulling toward me like a magnet to steel.
My water glass sweats in my palm, and I set it on a coaster, not trusting myself to hold it steady anymore. Is this dorky talk about welding actually turning her on?
