He falters, dragging a hand through his hair.
“Three coffees, please?”
That’s it.
The bottle pops.
He opens his mouth again, but I stop him before he orders a partridge in a pear tree.
“What exactly are you playing at?” I hiss .
He looks genuinely startled.
“I wasn’t—” He stops, his throat working.
“I’m sorry.” His voice is barely above a whisper.
I watch him.
Maybe he was tackled too many times while playing football. Maybe it resulted in a restaurant behavior disorder that manifests through excessive ordering.
I don’t know.
I’m a history major, not a doctor.
As politely as I can, I ask, “Is there someone I could call for you? A guardian?”
The look on his face is pure, R-rated horror.
He stands up so fast he almost knocks over the chair, throws money on the table and bolts.
I stand there, staring at the door, my order pad clenched in my hands.
What. Was. That.
CHAPTER 17 – CASPIAN
The door gives a mocking little jingle as it shuts behind me. Even the bellknows I humiliated myself beyond repair.
My skin feels hotter than the afternoon air. I walk toward my car, my visionblurry with disbelief and my body buzzing with attraction so strong Igenuinely fear for my own well-being.
Just before I reach for the door, I realize it’s not my car. It’s a beige Hondawith a rosary dangling from the mirror. The gray-haired woman inside turns towardme in slow motion, like a hawk spotting prey.
“Lovely weather,” I state stupidly, pointing at the sky. Then I pivot so fast I nearly dislocate my knee.
I finally manage to get into my own car.
Collapsing into the driver’s seat, I grip the steering wheel and let the shame wash over me. That stuttering disaster in the trattoria couldn’t have been me.
Except it was.
Oh my fucking God, it was.
But I don’t blurt. I don’t blush. I don’t advertise my singlehood to strangers no matter how beautiful their eyes are.
His were intense and dark like the richest espresso.
What the hell, Stone. Write a sonnet, why don’t you.
