This is new. No “what should we do?”, no “I’ll let you decide!” A firm but polite request:Come for a walk with me.
I shrug a shoulder. “Okay. But you might have to help me.” I point at my heels.
He holds out his arm. “Happily.”
Well, hot damn. Goodbye, RoboCop. Hello, Asher.
We must look at least a little strange, both dressed up, sitting on a park bench eating ice cream. Especially when I take my shoes off and tuck my legs underneath me. And especially when I laugh so loud, I snort.
Sexy.
But I’m having a great time. Asher is even better looking than I remember, and his smile …fuck, that smile. It makes my toes curl, and my teeth clamp down on my bottom lip so hard that I’m fairly sure there’s blood on my ice cream cone.
And the way he looks at me …
It’s disarming. He isn’t just looking; he’s admiring. His eyes move across my face or my hands as I gesture while telling stories. It’s like he’s trying to memorize everything about me and doesn’t care how obvious he’s being. His cheeks flush when I touch his arm mid-story. He keeps forgetting about his ice cream and twice he has cream running down his hand that he has to lick up.
That’ll be in the wank bank for a while.
And now he’s asking about my books. He’s heaven.
“I need to read one,” Asher says. “They sound fun.”
“No!” I cry. “They’re not supposed to be fun. They’re supposed to either gross you out or turn you on.” I think for a second. “Or both.”
“Both? That’s an interesting target audience.”
“And much larger than you’d think.” I wink and lick my ice cream.
“Which do they do for you?” he asks.
“I don’t get grossed out,” I say. “I love all the blood and gore and guts. It’s exciting.”
“People say that, but when it comes down to it, it’s different. I’m guessing.”
“Nope.” I shrug. “I used to do crime scene cleanup for cash when I was younger. It doesn’t bother me at all. I even used to sneak my dad’s cases when he brought them home and look at the photos.” I grin. “It was so fun.”
Asher looks at me like I’m the most amusing thing he's ever seen in his life.
Cool. When are you gonna ride him?
I tap my temple.
“What is that?” he asks, smiling.
“What?”
He taps his temple. “You do that a lot.”
I flush.
Heh, I’m ruining your date.
“It’s …” I breathe out a laugh. “Nothing.”
There’s a time and a place to tell someone about your inner voice, and a first date isn’t it.
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
