I sigh dramatically. “You’re killing me.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“From women?”
“From everyone.”
“Great.” I narrow my eyes. “You’re one of those guys.”
He hands me a glass. “And you’re still here.”
“For now.”
I take a sip, letting the bubbles settle, watching him over the rim.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine. I’ll ask a different way.”
He waits. “You were in the military,” I continue. “That part I got. What did you do?”
“Enough,” he says.
“That’s not an answer either.”
“It’s more than the last one.”
“Low bar.”
“Still counts.”
I study him.
“Were you good at it?” I ask.
His gaze meets mine. Steady.
“Yes.”
Something in my chest tightens. Because that wasn’t arrogance. That was spoken as a fact.
“Did you like it?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“I was good at it,” he repeats.
Which is not the same thing.
I swallow, setting my glass down.
My heart clenches again. I feel an overwhelming need to make a joke. Deflect. Do something to lighten the tension surrounding us. Instead, I step closer. Just a little.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“For what?”
“For tonight.”
