“Oh,” she says, munching on a curly fry as an uncomfortable quiet presses down on us.
“I mean, unless you’re not enjoying being with me?”
“It’s not that,” she rasps. “I just—umm …”
I wait patiently, desperate for her to open up to me. Each unspoken moment feels like a gulf widening between us that I’m not sure how to cross.
Finally, she says, words measured and slow, “I’ve already bothered you enough. Between rescuing me from the tree and all this auction mess tonight. You don’t owe me anything.”
“Huh.” I don’t know what else to say. On the one hand, her words sound like a very nice, ultra-polite way to let someone down. A clever twist on the “it’s not you, it’s me” schtick.
On the other hand, if she means what she says, truly believing she could be a bother to anyone? Well, that would fuck with my heart something fierce because she’s an amazing woman. Fiery, alive, passionate.How could I not want to be with her?
“Mind if I be blunt?” I ask.
“Not at all.” Her apprehensive face says otherwise.
“Either you don’t want to see me again, or you think I don’t want to see you again. Which is it?”
She knits her forehead. “It’s neither, Ambrose.”
The way she pronounces those two syllables gets me every time. Why, oh why, do I have to like the one woman immune to my charm and good looks? For the first time in my life, I wish I could impress this girl. Bowl her over with my celebrity. Whatever it takes.
“Then, what is it?”
She shrugs, “We’re way too different for each other …”
“But what about the stuff we have in common?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief.
“What do you mean? I’m a bookish, boring, DMV employee. And you’re …” She shakes her head.
“I grew up playing ice hockey like you. I adore a double-double with curly sweet potato fries and a large vanilla caramel shake from the diner. I volunteer my time and resources to help rescue animals, and I have a TBR I’d stack against yours any day.”
“Not possible,” she counters, though her cheeks glow like she wants to believe me.
“Completely possible. I read space operas.”
“Oh.”
“We’re both country born and bred, like homegrown music, and last time I checked, your pussy’s head over heels for me.”
Her eyes bug out, and I fight hard to suppress the laugh that grips me. I may be a generally decent guy and all, but I’ve still got a little bad boy in me, especially when I can mask it with a pun.
She squirms on the log, crossing her legs and shifting uncomfortably. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Dumpling, of course.”
“Oh,” she exclaims.
Chuckling, I hold up a hand. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.”
She giggles. “You had me there for a second.”
“You’ve got a dirty mind,Sparky.”
“Sparky?”
I nod firmly, ready to die on this hill.
