He leaned back in his chair, studying me with a glint in his eyes. “You don’t? I have a great memory of the last time.”
Oh my gosh, was he going to bring it up? Why was he looking at me like that? Certainly, we were both past it. He didn’t bring it up, but he did let me sit with the memory swirling between us. Was he trying not to laugh?
“I think the milk’s ready.”
His low voice gave me a start. The pinging electricity in the air wasn’t helping my jumpiness either. I glanced behind me. The milk was steaming in the pot so I pulled it off the burner and added the chocolate powder. My quaking fingers were my only giveaway as he watched me pour him a cup in silence. I brought the mug toward him and pushed it closer to him on the bar.
He made no move to reach for it but continued to watch me instead.
Self-consciously, I brought my hand up to my hair. Dark black strands spilling out every which way from my top bun. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting company. I usually brush my hair for guests.”
He smiled but said nothing. Another awkward pause grew between us and it was slowly killing me.
He took a sip. I watched his Adam's apple do its thing and then I swallowed, though I had nothing but spit going down my gullet. Where was the track? All this restless energy had me feeling I could run a hundred miles.
Geez, Lucy. A date. Once in a while. Just to take the edge off.
Crickets. Silence. I had never been great at small talk, which was probably why I worked with children. I never had to use small talk. They were plenty full of big talk. I should be asking him a thousand questions, but nothing was coming to my brain. The airwaves had shut down.
His cup hit the bar with a loud clunk. “Alright, I gotta break the ice. This is torture.”
My eyes widened, begging him not to bring it up.
“The last time I remember seeing you I was fifteen and you had just attempted to kiss me. Then, like some tragic country love song, I never saw you again.”
He brought it up.
At that point, my face was hidden behind my hands, but he took that as an invitation to keep going.
“I never even got a chance to tell you that you did it wrong.”
My hands parted like the Red Sea. “What?”
“You did it wrong.” He took another sip. Self-assured.
“How did I do it wrong? I mean, I know it was quick.”
“Lightning fast.”
“But that doesn’t mean it was donewrong.”
“You missed.”
My mouth fell open. “No, I didn’t.” I distinctly remember hitting lips. Warm, surprised lips encased over braces-filled teeth. The stuff of romantic dreams.
“You were somewhere in between my lower lip and chin.”
I stepped forward indignantly, my hands falling onto the bar, fully aware of the laughter in his eyes. “I would never be that embarrassing.” (Absolutely not true.) “I hit you right on the lips.”
“You popped up out of nowhere and your eyes were closed. You were lucky to know it was me.” He watched me squirm under his gaze. “Why’d you do it anyway? That’s plagued me for years.”
“Really?Plaguedyou? How does your wife feel about that?”
His eyebrows raised. “No wife. No girlfriend either. I can be plagued by it as much as I want.”
I blinked.
He looked like he was one step away from laughing. My tiny shameless plug to verify his relationship status had definitely backfired. My grandma had mentioned he was single, not to mention a strong, medium-built drink of hot water, but she had been known to flirt with younger married men too, from time to time. The harmless kind of old lady flirting—not the Fatal Attraction kind. And I wasn’t sure how close he was to my grandma. He could have gotten into a relationship last week, for all she knew.
