"Not recently, no," Forrest said. He regarded me for a long moment before placing his card on the plate for the server and passing it over to me to do the same.
"You keep doing that," I said.
"I do?" He raised an eyebrow at me. "What do I keep doing?"
"You keep looking at me like you're trying to figure out what I'm thinking."
"Maybe I am," he said slowly. "I'm intrigued by you. Curious as to what's going through your mind."
"Trust me, it's not as exciting as you might think," I said.
"I'm sure it is."
"Yeah?" I challenged. "Right now I'm wondering if I've had too much wine to walk straight."
"Interesting, I was thinking the same thing," he said.
"You were wondering if I've had too much wine to walk straight?" I asked.
He chuckled. "No, I was wondering about myself. Between us, I think we'll manage."
"It might look like we're in a three-legged race," I said. "That wouldn't be embarrassing at all."
"If I was going to be tied to someone, I'd like it to be you." He nodded his thanks to the server as she returned our cards.
"That's an interesting observation," I said. "Do you often think about being tied to people?"
"As a matter of fact, no," he said. "Just you. What about you? Is that something that crosses your mind?"
He pushed himself to his feet and offered me his arm.
"Being tied to someone else? I can't say I've ever contemplated it." I hooked my arm through his.
"What about being tied to somethingelse?" he asked as we stepped out onto the street.
The air was crisp and chill in spite of my warm coat.
"That depends on what the something is," I said carefully. "If we're talking about train tracks, then no thanks. If they're talking about a headboard…"
I'd definitely had too much to drink. My mouth was running away with itself. Or maybe it was revealing things I wouldn't have revealed if I was stone cold sober. You know what they say about alcohol shining a light on someone. Bringing the real them to the surface.
"Interesting," Forrest said slowly. "This is what I mean. You're intriguing. I think I've only scratched the surface when it comes to what makes Sable Kohl tick."
"Maybe. Maybe not," I shrugged. "I could say the same about you, though. I don't know much about you apart from the fact you want to save the world, and you have dubious taste in acquaintances."
"Woody isn't so bad," he said.
"You said he was the friend of a friend."
"That's right," he agreed.
"What is that friend like?" I asked.
"Leif Larsen? He's difficult to explain," Forrest said. "I might have to introduce you sometime."
"Leif Larsen, the interior designer?" I glanced over at him as we walked. "You're friends with him?"
"Guilty," Forrest said with a smile. "He decorated my apartment, and we stayed in contact. You know him?"
