“Not at all. I tend to be a big-picture dreamer, so it’s good to have someone around who notices the details. Besides, I’ve found there’s definitely some advantages to guys who pay close attention to the little things.” I give a flirty smile. “Especially when they respond to feedback about what’s working and what’s not.”
Travis’s eyes darken slightly.
“I’m definitely good at responding to feedback,” he says.
“Great to know. I always appreciate good quality control.” My voice comes out lower than I intended. There’s heat buildingunder my skin that has nothing to do with the restaurant’s ambient temperature.
Travis leans forward in his chair, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes stay fixed on mine. “Fair warning, though, my feedback can be…thorough.”
My brain short-circuits for a second. Because the way he says “thorough” should not affect me this much. It definitely shouldn’t be stirring a reaction in my cock, which apparently has an opinion on this conversation. “I’d expect nothing less from someone who tested bridge weight capacity with his mom’s book collection,” I manage to say.
“Those were important experiments. I learned a lot about load-bearing thresholds.”
I can’t help laughing delightedly at that, and he grins.
Oh my god. How is this so easy? I’ve just met the guy, yet this feels like sinking into a conversation with someone I’ve known for years.
Although I don’t have the throbbing undercurrent of sexual attraction going on in my conversations with long-term friends that I currently have with Travis.
It’s the way we’re leaning in toward each other, the way his eyes keep dropping to my mouth, the way the air between us feels charged, like a storm about to explode.
The waiter interrupts then, asking for our drink order, and we both blink down at the menu.
Dinner. That’s right. I’m on a dinner date right now. I shift in my seat, trying to get my body to calm down. We haven’t even ordered appetizers, and I’m already half-hard from a conversation about quality control.Get it together, Devin.
I quickly check out the drinks menu. “Ah, I’ll have an Anchor Steam, thanks.”
“I’ll have a glass of the Willamette Valley Pinot Noir,” Travis says.
The waiter retreats with our drinks order.
“So,” Travis says as he scans the menu, “my brother mentioned you’re vegetarian like me.”
“Guilty. Eleven years now. You?”
“Eight. Though I still get the occasional dream about bacon. I wake up feeling like I’ve betrayed my principles.”
“Bacon dreams are valid. I’m fairly sure they engineer that smell to haunt you.”
A small smile lurks on his face. “That’s exactly what I think. It’s olfactory manipulation.”
“So what made you become a vegetarian?” I ask, trying not to focus on how the tealight on the table highlights the way his stubble follows the sharp line of his jaw. He’s unfairly attractive when he’s thinking.
“I watched a documentary about the environmental impacts of meat production,” he explains. “I did the math on water usage per pound of beef and couldn’t justify it anymore.”
“You went vegetarian because of math?”
“Environmental math. It’s compelling.”
“I went vegetarian because baby cows have sad eyes,” I admit.
“Which is equally valid,” he says.
And we’re back to smiling ridiculously at each other again.
How is this level of instant connection even possible? There’s this weird sense of recognition I can’t explain. Not like déjà vu, exactly. More like…oh, there you are.
And our conversation only gets better over dinner.
