Page 21 of When a Soul Cries

The humor in her eyes faded as soon as she said it, replaced by something sharper.

Somebody had taught her that lesson personally.

I felt the urge to ask who, but I hadn’t earned the right yet.

“So, Sol,” I said instead, “when do you get off?”

Her guard returned immediately. “Why?”

“I want to take you to dinner.”

“I don’t know you.”

“That’s what dinner would fix.”

“I don’t go anywhere with strange men.”

“I’m not strange.”

“You almost fought a cereal display and then pretended you couldn’t find coffee.”

“You make a strong argument.”

She laughed again, and this time she didn’t hide it.

I liked the sound of it more than I should have.

“I’m serious,” I told her.

The lightness in her expression faded. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to take me out?”

I looked at her for a moment.

Women didn’t usually ask me that. They saw my clothes, my watch, or the name on my card, and the answer didn’t matter.

But Sol wanted one.

“Because you stopped me in my tracks without even trying. Because that little smile of yours is the first genuine thing I’ve seen all day. And because I want to know who you are when you’re not wearing that red vest and pretending everything is fine.”

Her lips parted slightly.

For the first time since I approached her, she didn’t have a quick response.

The silence between us changed.

It became heavier.

Warmer.

Her eyes searched mine, looking for the lie she expected to find.

I let her look.

“I get off at nine,” she finally said.