“Before you refuse,” I say quickly, holding it out, “I’m not trying to be chivalrous. I actually run hot. Football player metabolism or something.”
She eyes the sweatshirt suspiciously, but the wind gusts again, and I can see the goosebumps forming on her arms.
“Fine,” she relents, taking it from me. “But only because I’m actually cold now.”
She slips it on, and something shifts in my chest watching her disappear into the fabric that swallows her whole. The sleeves hang past her fingertips, and she pushes them up with a small huff. The moss green looks good against her skin, making her eyes seem even darker.
“Better?” I ask, trying not to sound
too pleased with myself.
“It’s warm,” she admits grudgingly. Then she wraps her arms around herself and adds, “Thanks.”
We stand there for a minute, neither of us quite ready to say goodnight.
“So,” she says, rocking back on her heels. “This is me.”
“This is you,” I echo, suddenly aware of how much I don’t want to leave. “Thanks for coming out with me tonight.”
“Thanks for the ice cream,” she says. “And for not being as insufferable as I initially thought.”
I laugh, feeling warmth spread through my chest despite the cool air. “High praise indeed.”
“The highest,” she agrees with a small smile.
We’re stuck in that awkward dance of not knowing how to end the night.
Do I kiss her?
Not kiss her?
Imean, I want to kiss her but I have a strong feeling she might punch me in the face if I try.
“I had fun,” I tell her honestly. “More fun than I’ve had in a long time.”
“With food trucks and normal ice cream? I find that hard to believe.”
“It wasn’t the food,” I say, my voice dropping. “It was the company.”
She looks at me and I want to kiss her—God, I want to kiss her—but I also don’t want to push too fast. Whatever this is between us feels fragile, new, like a bird that might fly away if I move too suddenly. I’m usually the guy who knows exactly what to do, but right now? I’m out of my comfort zone.
Does she want me to kiss her?
Would I look like a horny asshole if I tried?
I don’t want to be that guy.
“I should probably go up,” she says softly, eyes darting to my lips for just a fraction of a second.
I nod, my throat instantly dry. “Yeah, of course.”
Her eyes grow and she tugs at my sweatshirt currently hugging her body. “Your sweatshirt.”
“Keep it,” I say, stopping her. “Then you’ll have it if you need it or you can bring it next time.”
“Next time?” One eyebrow arches up. “That’s presumptuous.”
The confidence drains from me like air from a punctured football.
