His grin flashes. “Only the scary ones.”
“Scary?”
“You are,” he says, like it’s a compliment. “You look like you could stab someone with a pencil and not lose sleep.”
I snort despite myself. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” He tips his head. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’ve been disappointed by the world enough times that you started carrying your own knife.”
I go still. For a second, the old warning in my head rises — too perceptive, too smooth, too close. Men who see too much are dangerous. I set my beer down carefully, watching the foam settle a little. “You don’t know anything about me.”
Evan’s smile fades into something calmer. “You’re right. I don’t.” He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t pry. Just lets the boundary exist without making me feel crazy for drawing it. “I’m not trying to get in your head,” he says. “I just like talking to you.”
That should make me run.
Instead, it makes my stomach flip like I’m eighteen again and stupid and standing too close to a boy who feels like temptation. A boy who respects the lines I draw in the sand, and by doing so, makes me want to jump right the fuck over them and into his arms.
I swallow hard and glance at the clock behind him.
Forty minutes left.
Good. I can do forty.
I can do one drink, one order of cheesy fries, and probably a dozen more moments where I want to wipe that respectful smile off his face by kissing him.
That’s when it hits me, cold and clear.
I’m in trouble.
Not because he’s pushy.
Not because he’s a player.
Because he’s the opposite, and he makes me forget to be guarded.
As he watches me like I’m worth the effort, I catch myself thinking the most dangerous thought of all: what would it feel like to say yes to him again?
Chapter Twelve
Evan
Molly sits across from me in the split-vinyl booth, arms folded like she’s holding herself together by force. There’s almost enough room between her and the table for a confession to slip through. The lighting in this place is unkind — it stains her hair the color of blood oranges and pools under her cheekbones, carving shadows into something sly and mean. She keeps her chin tipped up, eyes flicking everywhere but my face. The effect should be defensive, but on Molly it’s a dare: try to get through me.
And despite the lighting and the mean-mugging, she still looks damn beautiful.
The waitress appears with Molly’s order of fries, the kind that slouch under a blanket of orange cheese and jalapeno, and drops the basket like she’s slapping down a gauntlet. “Enjoy your date,” she says, chipper, all teeth. Then she gives Molly a wink too blatant to be friendly and returns to her station.
Molly’s cheeks go hot, with blotchy red spreading up her neck. She blinks hard, like she’s trying to will away the reaction. She drags her gaze over my face like she’s checking that I’m real, and then she exhales through her nose.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay, what?”
“Okay… I did the drink.” She taps the table once, as if she’s stamping a receipt. “You got your thank-you. I’m going to finish my fries and then get the hell out of here.”
