‘Truthfully, I’m not sure. Maybe I just like to know where I stand. Maybe I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’
‘That makes no sense.’
‘Probably not.’ His hand glides from my elbow, past my wrist, until it’s resting against my own in my lap. My eyes track the motion, my insides doing an unnecessary victory roll. I feel suddenly wired. His hand is so close to, well, there. I’m still staring when he speaks again.
‘Or maybe it’s just that divorced chicks are fun to bang.’
I laugh, unexpectedly, and probably against any kind of female code. If it’s true, it definitely makes him an ass, but then, didn’t I already know that? If I’m doing this, then all the more reason for it to be him. I know what I’m getting and that’s a one night fling.
‘Truthfully... I’m just starting to let my marriage go. So yeah,’ I add, tipping my chin. ‘Recently. Go ahead and dislike me for it if you want.’ Despite the undercurrent of hurt, the end of my little speech comes off as ballsy and hard.
When he laughs, large and warm, his appreciation feels like a sudden burst of warmth from the sun.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, bolstered, though trying to curtail my own smile. ‘I won’t cry, you know, afterwards or ask you to hold me.’
‘Shame. I’m kind of a snuggler myself.’ Despite the cutesy sentiment, his smile sort of hovers, like he’s daring me into more reckless words.
‘Because spooning leads to forking?’ I ask, faux sweet.
‘Spooning has a habit of leading to all sorts of things.’
His delivery is anything but flippant and I can feel the promise in those words. Feel it enough to make my panties damp. He doesn’t say anything else and I assume his inaction or pause is like he’s giving me a get-out. When I don’t make any overtures of that sort, his fingers curl under my palm.
‘Shall we?’
He tugs gently and I begin my slide from the chair definitively this time, but halt at a sudden risen thought.
‘Wait.’ I place my hand on his chest, half up and half down. ‘Do you have money?’ By his appearance, it’s hard to tell. He looks like he could spend a lot of cash on his clothes and hair, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. By the look on his face, I need to quantify that statement. ‘I’m not soliciting for gods’ sake. I just need to know if you’re wealthy. You know, rich?’
Cue a second weird expression before he answers with a taut-jawed, ‘Not particularly.’
‘Great,’ I say with a deep exhale and an even wider smile. ‘I have a rule.’ It’s a new one. I should write it down. Put it on a plaque above my bed. ‘I don’t sleep with rich men.’ They aren’t worth the heartache.
‘Wouldn’t make any difference if I was.’ His accent is a touch heavier, almost as though it’s laid on for effect. ‘You won’t be getting much sleep tonight.’
