I’m so irritated, I don’t look where I’m going and wind up tripping on a tree root. I fall forward and land with my face smushed against his abs and my hands on his chest. “Oof!”
Wow, humiliating. And sidenote: those are very hard abs.
He helps me stand up straight and gives me an amused grin. “You okay there?”
“Fine,” I tell him, fixing my hair a little.
“If you wanted to get a closer look, you could just ask.” Smirk. “I’d happily let you.”
Face flaming, I glare at him. “Your conceitedness knows no bounds.”
“Hey, I’m not the one copping a feel and spending God knows how long imagining my life,” he says, turning away and continuing on.
I make a growly face at his back, then say, “Obviously, that was an accident. And I haven’t been thinking about you. At all. I was going off the cuff just then, based on my limited knowledge of you.”
“I see. Well, your limited knowledge has led you to some wrong assumptions.”
“As generally happens when one’s knowledge is limited.”
“Fair point,” he says. “Well, allow me to set the record straight. I have a small house on a cliff overlooking the ocean with a big garden. You’d hate it because it’s quiet, there’s nowhere to shop, no restaurants—amazing or otherwise—and no plays to attend. It’s also on the rustic side, which I’m guessing isn’t your preferred decorating style, based on your makeup kit.”
“Hey, that’s not?—”
“No, no,” he says, holding one finger up over his shoulder. “I’m not done yet. Most days, I pull my dinner from the sea—fish, lobster, crabs. I eat like a king for next to nothing, whereas I’m guessing you spend half your salary on takeout at one of the manyamazingrestaurants on every corner.”
I bristle a little. “Now who’s the one making assumptions?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I get takeout, sure, but only because I’m far too busy to cook. And it’s not half my salary. Not even close.” Although now that I think about it, I honestly have no clue what percentage of my salary I spend at A Taste of India every month. Or Starbucks. Or Gino’s Pizza. But it’s a lot.
“Ah, I stand corrected. Your life sounds like a dream come true. Rushing to and from the office, working for a total tyrant, dipping into coffee shops and restaurants to refuel, only to keep running until you drop into bed at night. But I’m sure you have lots of time to go see all those incredible Broadway shows with all the A-list stars.”
“Okay, so my job is demanding. That’s true, but it’s all going to be worth it.”
“I highly doubt that,” he says over his shoulder.
“God, you’re a know-it-all.”
“That’s because I’m wise beyond my years.”
“Exactly how old are you?” I ask. “Because I’m starting to wonder if you’ve got a Benjamin Button situation going on.”
“Thirty-four.”
“Thirty-four? So that’s your chronological age or do you mean your biological age?”
“Thirty-four and what the hell is the difference?”
“Chronological age is how long you’ve been alive.Biological age is an indicator of your lifespan based on lifestyle choices.”
“Jesus, what a bunch of nonsense,” he says, stepping over a tree root on our path. “Watch your step.”
“Thank you,” I say, then add, “And of course it would sound like a bunch of nonsense to someone who’s basically a boomer already.”
“Hey, the boomers have it right, if you ask me,” he says. “They know how to keep it simple and have a good time.”
“Oh please, they’re the only people on this planet who can afford to have a good time.”
