I jerk back like I've been electrocuted, stumbling a little, and his arm drops from my waist.
"Sorry," I blurt out. "Sorry, I—that was—thank you. You were amazing. Did you see their faces? My dad looked like he wanted to call the cops."
I'm babbling. I'm absolutely babbling and I can't stop. Nash just looks at me with those dark eyes, and I wonder if he can tell.
If he knows.
That the second he pulled me against him, my entire body went haywire. That I'm currently having a crisis in the general area of my underwear. That I've been wet since the moment his hand wrapped around my waist and I felt exactly how strong he is.
No.
No, there's no way he knows.
Because that would require him to think of me as someone who could be attracted to him, and men like Nash don't think about women like me that way.
"Your dad didn't like me," Nash says.
"That's the point," I say quickly. "You were perfect. Seriously. When I said you’re a hero… That was a great touch, don’t you agree?"
"It was, but there was no need for that."
"I know, but—" I wave my hand vaguely. "It made my mom pause. Just for a second. That's huge. My mom doesn't pause."
He's still looking at me.
I'm still talking.
"And the way you just—" I gesture at where we were standing. "The arm thing. I didn't expect that. That was good. Really good. Very boyfriend-y."
"You said to act like we're dating."
"I did. Yeah. You're right. And you did. Great job."
Jesus Christ, I sound like I'm giving him a performance review. His jaw tightens and I think I see something flicker in his eyes, but it's gone before I can name it.
"Dinner's at seven," he says.
"Right. Yeah. Dinner." I run my hands through my hair, trying to calm down. "We should probably, I don't know, get our story straight? Like how we got together, how long we've been dating, that kind of thing?"
"Okay."
"Do you want to… I mean, we could talk about it now? Or later? Whatever works for you."
"Now's fine."
"Okay. Great. Do you want to sit? I can make coffee. Or tea? Do you drink tea? I have tea. Somewhere."
I'm already moving toward the kitchen, desperate for something to do with my hands.
He follows me.
The kitchen is small, too small, suddenly, with him in it. He takes up so much space. Not just physically, though god knows he does that too. But there's a presence to him. Something solid and immovable, like gravity.
I busy myself with the coffee maker, measuring grounds with shaking hands.
"So," I say, not looking at him. "We should probably say we've been dating for... a month? Two months? What sounds believable?"
"You pick."
