“I’m hungry,” I say, desperate to change the subject. “Are we done? I might head off and get something to eat.”
He reaches over to close his laptop with a heavy exhalation. “Yeah. But…” He rubs the back of his neck, frowning again. “Why don’t we grab something and hang out? Or do you have another date?”
“No. That’s tomorrow.”
He reaches for his water, draining the bottle. “Right. So Shane gets lucky tomorrow?”
“No! God no. It’s only our second date.”
“How many dates till sex, then? What’s the rule?”
“Um… I’m not sure. I’ll play it by ear.” I fiddle with the book, avoiding his gaze. Silence descends upon us and when I glance up, Myles is studying me. The intensity of his gaze makes my blood rush, and I look away again. “Do we have to talk about this?”
He gives a light laugh. “No. Sorry. So… dinner? Is Chinese okay?”
I nod, relieved.
He stands to grab a menu and I set his book down on the ottoman again. It’s so threadbare that the foam stuffing underneath is spilling out. If only I had my staple gun and a piece of fabric here, I could tidy that up in five seconds flat.
Actually, I think, letting my eyes meander around the room, I could make this whole place a little nicer without much work. A throw over the couch and some cushions, curtains on the windows, a cover for his comforter. And he should hang up those pictures of his, they’re stunning. It wouldn’t take much to get this place feeling more like a home, and less like somewhere a destitute bartender crashes in between shifts. Not to mention it would make a much nicer pad for him when he brings women home.
Myles orders us some food while I look around, thinking. He’s doing so much to help me out. I can’t pay him right now, but maybe I could do this place up a bit, as another way to pay him back for his help. Well, that and the dresses I want to make for his daughter.
Dinner arrives a few minutes later and Myles pads to the door. When he reaches for his wallet, I spring to my feet.
“I’ve got it.”
“It’s okay,” he says kindly. “I’m happy to pay. I know things are tight with the store.”
That’s true, but I’m worried thathisfinancial situation might be worse. “Oh, it’s fine. You’re…” I gesture around his apartment and cringe at my tactlessness. “You’re helping me out so much, it’s the least I can do.”
“No, really—”
“Myles,” I say, exasperation creeping into my tone as the delivery guy knocks again.
He gives me a lop-sided grin. “Okay. Let’s split it, yeah?”
I hesitate, then sigh. “Fine.” His poor male ego is probably taking a bit of a hit with me trying to pay.
He rummages in his wallet, pulling out a fistful of bills. “You sure you don’t want me to—”
“Myles,” I repeat, handing him a twenty.
He laughs, taking the bill. “God, you’re stubborn.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as he opens the front door. I don’t want him to waste his money buying me dinner. If that makes me stubborn, then so be it.
We settle on the sofa with the cartons of food, eating in comfortable silence.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday, about clothes,” Myles says after a while. “You said they’re a way to express who you are and how you feel.”
I nod.
“So what are you expressing?” He gestures to me and I choke on a laugh.
“What?”
“You always wear black. The same thing, every day. What’s up with that?”
