“For Mister Right?”
“Yes.”
He rolls his eyes. “Please, pass me a bucket. I just gagged on a cliché.”
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting a husband, Justin.”
He looks horrified at the mention of the wordhusband, like it’s a virus he’s in danger of catching. “We’re from two different planets, TT. You’re wanting a forever ending with someone and I haven’t dated anyone longer than a month.”
I suspected as much, but his admission still leaves me oddly disappointed. This man that I’m unfortunately attracted to can’t give me the life I want. Not that I was seeing him in that way, I tell myself hastily. Not at all. But I can’t shake the disappointed feeling.
Justin takes a sip of his coffee. “I suppose you want children too.”
“One day, yes.”
He pulls at the neck of his T-shirt, as though he’s feeling suffocated.
“What about you?” I ask.
“Nope.”
Curiosity gets the better of me. “Why not?”
His jaw tightens. “Why would I want children? So I can screw them up like my parents did me?”
I want to reach for his hand and assure him he’s not a screw-up, but I suspect any gesture I make would be misinterpreted as pity. And Justin doesn’t appear to be a man who would take kindly to being pitied.
“What are you looking for then?” I ask him instead.
His eyes mock me over his coffee. “At the moment, only Miss Good Times.”
Before I can respond, the server returns with our food. Considering how speedily she crossed over to us, she’s taking an awfully long time leaning over Justin to deposit his plate in front of him. Her eyes linger on his biceps straining the sleeves of his T-shirt. I’m embarrassed to admit my eyes enjoy lingering there too. The man has an exceptional body. Justin doesn’t seem to mind the attention.
As soon as she’s gone, I say, “All this adoration can’t be easy for you.”
“No,” he agrees easily. “Not when I keep falling off the pedestal.”
With a start of surprise, I realize I’m enjoying the easy banter between us. I recall Justin’s strange visit to my house last night. The memory of him straddling that giant bike of his while staring up at my window causes a flush of heat to work its way up my spine. I wonder if he’ll bring it up. Will I? Probably not.
I dressed with extra care today, knowing I’d be meeting with him later. At the end of the workday, I changed into a fitted white blouse and denims, spritzing perfume on my pulse points. My hair is free from its customary practical bun, falling to my shoulders in thick, shiny waves.
Not that he’s said anything. Not that I care he hasn’t said anything.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice him pocketing a folded slip of paper. “She didn’t,” I blurt out, almost choking on a mouthful of soup.
He smiles broadly in the face of my disbelief. “She did.”
“Unbelievable.”
He cuts into his quesadilla. “Frankly, I’m a little hurt you’re so surprised.”
“Since we’re talking so frankly, your ego could do with a little bruising.”
“That role’s already been taken.”
I start to ask jokingly who’s taken it, but the look on his face warns me the subject is not open for discussion. His parents, I guess, remembering our conversation in the park. Whenever they’re mentioned, a closed expression comes over his face. An expression like the one he’s wearing now.
“Are you going to call her?” I ask before I can stop myself.
