His smile is amused, but almost distracted, like I said something that reminded him of something else. “I meant, what do you do in your spare time?”
“You’ll never believe this, but I actually take apart people’s washing machines and don’t put them back together.”
His eyes flash, as if his amusement is tinged with something else. Desire, maybe? Does a bit of witty banter rile him up? I fucking hope so, because there’s plenty more where that came from.
“What a coincidence,” he muses. When he leans forward to grab his beer bottle, his shirt strains against his pecs, and I have to force myself not to stare. “Are you from around here?”
I snort. “Like that’s even remotely as interesting as your back story—I’m not the one with the British accent, here. What’s the leap from England to New Jersey all about?” I ask, genuinely curious. His background check gave me some insight, but dates and numbers only tell facts, not a story. According to immigration, he’s been in the country for a few years.
After a long sip, he sets the bottle back down and regards me curiously. “That’s the third personal question you’ve dodged,” he observes.
I reach for my own drink to hide my shock. The guy from my last first date didn’t ask me a single question—it made for a boring meal, but I didn’t really mind since I don’t usually share personal details anyway. It also led to an unsurprisingly selfish sexual encounter that left me so thoroughly unsatisfied that I remember thinking I didn’t need a real man in my life as long as I had SpyderMan.
And here Peter is, not only asking questions but noticing my lack of answers? Like he genuinely cares and wants to know stuff about me? And that’samazing?
Jesus. The bar really is so low for men it’s in hell.
“You do realize the point of a date is to get to know each other?” he continues lightly, eyebrows lifting.
Well, I’ve been thoroughly called out. “Sorry,” I wince. “I’m rusty, I guess. It’s been a long time since I’ve been out on a date.”
“Really?”
The surprise in his tone is so genuine that it’s flattering. And here I was, assuming that admitting I don’t get out much makes me sound like a loser. Clearly he doesn’t think I am. “Yeah… I guess I’ve been a little hung up on someone else.”
A lot of guys would hear that and bristle at the idea of competition. Not Peter. Peter smiles gently, like he understands. “Well, I’m glad you’re here with me.”
I smile back, feeling warmth settle around my heart. “Me too.” It’s a nice moment, but it feels a little heavy, so I break it by quipping, “You know, I was a little nervous about this date, but I think you might be kind of a closet nerd, Mr. Motorcycle. I feel like you’re the kind of guy who had a phase where you wore fedoras with sincerity.”
He wants to laugh. So bad. I can see it in the sudden twinkle in his eye as he rubs his lower lip. Between the size, strength, and tattoos covering the back of those hands… the sight sends a sharp pang of need straight through my core.Dios, they’d look good around my neck.
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, love. I’ve never done anything with sincerity.”
I grin. Yup. Confirmed. Similar senses of humor. And “love”? I’m definitely a goner.
Our food comes, then, and our flirting is momentarily derailed by how amazing it all looks and smells. I load my tacos up with the spiciest sauce on the table, and Peter reaches for it to do the same.
“I would stick to the green one,” I advise. At his questioning look, I smirk. “No offense, but you look like regular black pepper might take you out.”
He throws his head back and laughs, and I’m treated to the sight of his throat bobbing. “I know British food isn’t notorious for its use of spices—which I’ve always found odd, considering the fact that my forefathers colonized the world for them—”
“You said it, not me, 50 Shades of Beige,” I cut in, grinning.
“—but don’t worry about me, love. I’m made of sturdy stuff.” He thumps his chest twice with his hand.
He makes his point by reaching for the sauces and using the little spoon to pour some of the red one directly on his finger. He sticks it in his mouth, maintaining ateasing kind of confrontational eye contact, but the cocky expression slowly melts into alarm as the heat hits his tongue and coats the inside of his mouth.
“Your ears are turning red, Peter.” I wave my pointer finger in his general direction. “And I think I see a little steam coming out of them.”
He makes a pained grunt and reaches for his water.
I tuck my lips against each other so I don’t laugh at his pain and push his beer closer to him with my fingertips. “Drink this—water will make it worse.”
The look he shoots me is full of gratitude and a refreshing lack of ego. After he quenches the fire in his mouth, we settle into the easiest back-and-forth conversation I can remember having in person… ever. We mostly end up exchanging stories from our childhoods, a perfectly safe topic. Some of his stories even remind me of things SpyderMan has told me, making me wonder if it’s a universal boy experience to try to ride a bike with no hands and crash into a pond.
An hour goes by in the blink of an eye. Peter is… kind of perfect.
He’s polite to waiters and strangers. He eats neatly. He listens intently when I speak and doesn’t just wait for his turn to talk. He notices when I get cold from a draft and offers me his jacket. He’s funny and smart. He waves off my offer to split the check. He laughs at my jokes and never gets offended by my personal brand of mocking, sarcastic flirting.
