Page 41 of Off the Grid

He glances at his watch and curses. “Look, I get that this is the surprise of all surprises, but I have a meeting to get to.”

“Yep. Go right ahead,” I say.

“Great. Thanks.” He nods and takes a few steps back.

“One more question,” I say, unable to help myself.

“What’s that?” He stops and meets my eyes.

“Why me at the bar?”

“I told you. Convenience.”

“Bullshit,” I say, and the widening of his eyes says as much. “And the reason I know it’s bullshit is because you felt guilty when I found out. You chased after me. You showed a stream of conscience when it would appear you don’t have one at all.”

“What do you want me to say? That you’re right?”

“No. I want you to tell me what it is about me that made you single me out.”

“Christ.” He blows out a breath and looks over his shoulder as if he expects someone else to be standing there before looking back to me. “It was nothing in particular, okay? You’re pretty. Beautiful. But that doesn’t mean you’re my type.”

Give this conversation up.

Walk away.

But I don’t listen to my own advice. “And what is then?”

“Let’s just say I like women who have a little more confidence. Who own their sexuality rather than hide from it.” He looks me up and down again—my baggy jeans, my oversized button-up shirt.

Fuck. Direct hit. Nice work . . . asshole.

If he only knew how many times I tried to ignore the little voice in my head telling me I was being ridiculous. How many panic attacks were triggered when I tried to prove to myself that I was. How I hate that I’ve felt the need to hide for so many goddamn years.

“And?” I prompt, clearly a glutton for punishment.

“Nah. I think I’ve said enough.” He glances over his shoulder before meeting my eyes.

“Why stop now, right?”

“Look. I’m not sure if you’re doing this so you can further bury me in a hole you’re digging for me or if you’re trying to beat yourself up some more. Neither appeal to me.”

“Or maybe I want to see what others think when they look at me. I happen to know for a fact that you have no problem making people feel like shit.”

His sigh resonates, and I almost feel bad for putting him on the spot. Almost. But now that my request is out there, I want him to answer it.

The problem is he’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. Reject my request and he’s an asshole. Fulfill it and he looks even shallower.

A pained expression pinches his face.

“A guy’s opinion is all I’m asking for.”

“We barely even know each other. This isn’t cool of you to ask me this.”

“Just like the dare card wasn’t cool. Humor me, will you?” Why do I keep pushing this? Am I trying to punish myself for suddenly feeling? For liking the hum that vibrates beneath my skin when he’s near?

“Look.” He draws in a fortifying breath. “You’re gorgeous. Your face. Your features. Your eyes. But it’s more than clear by the clothes you’re swimming in that you hate your body.” My skin heats at his scrutiny. “You may have something against curves, but I assure you, no one else does.”

Tears well in my eyes, and I blink them away as quickly as they come. I sniff and nod.