I shrug. “You check your mirrors more than anyone I know. You’re a very careful driver.”
Silence. His jaw moves, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “Just a habit,” he finally says. “Working security makes you cautious.”
“I see.” I nod. “That makes sense.”
He glances at me. It’s a brief look, but it goes right through me, past my next question, past all the small talk, past the sundress I settled on after changing three times this morning. It touches something deep inside my chest, causing my heart to flutter like a butterfly’s wings.
“You ask a lot of questions, you know?”
“You dodge a lot of them,” I reply. “You know?”
Again, he almost smiles. “That’s fair.”
He doesn’t driveme to a restaurant. He takes me through Gaslamp, then along the waterfront to a part of the Embarcadero I’ve never been too. He parks on a stretch of old pier that’s half-abandoned, then leads me on foot to a small taco stand with a hefty line.
I try not to stare at him, but I fail.
He dwarfs me in height. I feel so small standing next to him, which has me all warm inside. I’m starting to get flushed, and there’s a heat between my thighs moving up, deeper into my core.
As we step up to the stand, the smell of charred meat, lime, and tacos fills the air, making my mouth water. There’s no sign. No menu board. Just a couple of guys behind the window and a couple at the grill.
“So cool.” I smile. “How do you know about this place?”
“Just looking around. I like to know the places off the beaten path.”
Of course he does. Chris probably has every inch of San Diego mapped out. Every back alley, every one-way street, every private club and places not listed online. Most people would find that sketchy, but I find it…
Either thrilling or worrying. Or maybe a combination of both.
He orders for us both—two fish tacos for me, and two chicken for him with guac. We eat them on a bench looking over the water. The sun is high, but it’s not too hot, and the bay is glittering. It feels like something out of a movie.
Chris has his shirt sleeves rolled up, which means I can see most of his tattoo. Lines and angles in faded ink, climbing his bicep and disappearing behind the fabric. I want to pull his sleeve up, examine it fully, ask him what it means.
But of course I don’t do that. Not yet.
“Chris, tell me something real about you,” I ask, finishing my second taco. “Just one thing that isn’t about security consulting.”
He takes a bite and swallows, looking out over the water. He’s going to deflect again. Pivot to a question about me, or reply with some answer you’d expect from a politician that says everything and nothing all at once.
“You ever heard of people who don’t sleep much? I’m one of them.”
There’s a truth to his tone that I didn’t expect. “How much is not much?”
“Four hours.” He shrugs. “Sometimes less. My mind’s always running, I guess.”
“Oh, yeah? And what keeps it running?”
He turns his eyes to me, and I go into free-fall. “Honestly? You.”
Oh no.
Oh my God.
My cheeks go hot so fast I’m sure he sees it. Blushing hard, I look down as my hands start to tremble.
This is stupid. I’m a grown woman. I can vote, I have a job, I pay taxes, make my own appointments, and yet a simple compliment from this man has me on the verge of crumbling.
Crumbling into a blushing pile of pieces of Avery.
