Without seeming to get the joke, she responds, “How would I know? I’m never in a car.”
“But you imagine yourself snacking in this one,” I prompt.
She shifts in her seat. “I might get hungry. I like to be prepared.”
Finley is the most unpredictable woman I’ve ever met. “Did the girl in the movie keep snacks in her glove box?”
Her complexion turns pink before she answers, “Why would that matter?”
I turn the key and start the car. “I was just wondering.”
We sit for a moment in silence before Finley confesses, “She kept snacks in the glove compartment.” I don’t know why but I find her answer very charming.
“You really like that movie, huh?”
“I’ve seen it one hundred and fourteen times,” she tells me.
My hand is on the gear shift and I’m about to put the car in drive, but her words stop me. “One hundred and fourteen times is a lot.”
“I suppose it depends on what you’re comparing it to.” I can almost see the hamster wheel turning in her brain before she adds, “I find repetition comforting.”
“Like how you’re always petting your sweaters?” I ask.
She turns to me with a look of alarm. “Excuse me?”
I shrug. “I just assumed you liked soft things. And you know, touching them brings you joy.”
Finley looks like she wants to cry again. But instead of doing that, she side-eyes me like she’s trying to decide if she can trust me. “I do like soft things.” Then she asks, “Is your sweater cashmere?”
“It is.” The hand that was previously on her lap seemingly lifts of its own accord. “Would you like to touch it?” I ask her.
She shakes her head in such a way I can tell she’s fighting a nod. Reaching out, I gently take her hand in mine. Then I slowly move it in the direction of my chest. I make sure to give her plenty of time to pull it back if she wants to. She doesn’t.
Once her hand meets its target, Finley closes her eyes and exhales like she’s experiencing pure bliss. Which I’m pretty sure I’m feeling as well. “May I rub it?” she asks so quietly I wonder if I imagined it.
I grunt in affirmation in case the inquiry was real. Then I sit in anticipation while I wait for her hand to move. When it finally does, I release a groan of pleasure.Who knew having a woman touch your sweater could be such an erotic experience?
“Was it expensive?”
“My sweater?”
“Yes,” she says on a breathy exhale.
“It was a gift from my mother,” I tell her. “So, I’m guessing it wasn’t cheap.”
“Do you know what brand it is?”
“I don’t think I’ve noticed. But I can look and text it to you if you want.”
“I would appreciate that.” She hesitantly pulls her hand away from me and rests it back on her lap.
“Do you want to buy one for someone?”
Her chin bobs up and down. “I do.”
“For your dad?”
Her profile makes her look like an elfin sprite. Her lips are lush, her eyelashes are long, and her nose has a slight upturn. Her head moves from side to side, but she doesn’t look at me. All she says is, “No.”
