“You can never compare with my hall pass,” I teased, enjoying the annoyance that he quickly banished from his expression. What could I say? He’d swilled that Rioja extra loud tonight. “He doesn’t exist outside of the pages of a book.”
He sneered. “Nothing to compete with so why would I care?”
“Not in real life, no,” I mused, but my smile formed slower than frozen maple syrup.
I caught his eye. Watched him watch my mouth. Practically salivated when his nostrils flared in irritation…
“Who is he?”
Snap.
I had him right where I wanted him.
“Someone who can get me to hit the big O without even touching me,” I tested him.
My other sister, Róisín, said it wasn’t normal to test dates.
I also disagreed with her.
“Well, if you’re not going to tell me his name, then what’s the point of playing this dumb fucking game?”
“Someone’s cranky.” My finger shaped the stem of the wineglass. “He’s a character in a book. His name is Jack DuBois.” His brow furrowed, but before he could disdain my tastes, I continued, “Anyway, it’s my turn to ask you a question.”
“Maybe I won’t answer.”
I rolled my eyes.
The server broke into our conversation/argument by dropping off somepatatas bravasand a bunch of other tapas. I had no problem with Spanish food, loved it even, but I didn’t enjoy the tiny portions or the dishes’ inauthentic vibes.
Brad, despite claiming to have visited Spain, had zero idea he’d forked up trash. But then, he worried about his macros and micros more thanflavor.
Another turnoff.
What was it with guys today? Maybe I’d been around my brothers too much, men who put away metric tons of food on a daily basis, but fuck, I missed a dude who feasted. Unashamedly. Wholeheartedly.
“You sure you should be eating that?”
I stabbed the potato with my fork. Extra hard.
“The sardines are protein-rich…”
Slowly, my eyes locked on his, I raised the potato to my mouth, dragged the tines against my teeth, then chewed on it. Only when I’d swallowed did I drawl, “My macros are my own business. So, are you going to ask me a question or what?”
“How many times do you work out in a week?”
Wow, he really was choosing death today, huh?
“Every time I work. Yesterday, I clocked in over twenty thousand steps.” I pinned him with a stare. “I recommend we get off this topic before I skewer you with this fork instead of the potatoes.”
“Your turn,” he croaked.
“Is there anyone on this planet that you’d date in a heartbeat?”
His frown made an instantaneous appearance. “Like a celebrity?”
I considered this my standard third-date question.
There was rarely a fourth…
