“Great,” he says.“Transportation helps.”
I shake my head, half-horror, half-amused.“This is insane.”
“It’s practical.”
“It is not practical. It is unhinged.”
“Both can be true.”
I push the key toward him again. He doesn’t take it.
“Blake.”
“Lisa.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.”
That startles me enough to make me stop.
He leans in a little, expression steady now. No teasing. No wink. No charm weaponized into deflection.
“I’m asking you out,” he says.“You keep telling me your life is complicated. Fine. I believe you. But I’m not waiting around for perfect timing that doesn’t exist.” His eyes hold mine.“So here’s the deal. Borrow the car. Let me take you out once. One date. If it’s terrible, you can hand me the keys back and tell me I’m the most annoying man in Chicago.”
I stare at him.
“That is manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.”
“It’s blackmail with leather seats.”
His mouth twitches.“You guessed the interior.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The worst part is that he says it gently. Like he knows. Like, he isn’t even trying to win, just trying to stay in the conversation long enough for me to stop running from it.
I look down at the key in my hand.
Then back at him.
“This is too much.”
“For tonight?” he asks.
“For… everything.”
He nods once.“Ok.”
He reaches for the door handle, and for one wild second, I think he’s giving up.
Instead, he gets out, comes around my side, and opens the door for me. He offers me his hand, as if this is perfectly normal behavior and not the most disorienting male interaction I have had in years.
I take it.
