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“You don’t seem like you believe me.”
“Well, I do.”
“Okay,” I mumbled.
We continued waiting.
He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers.
I watched as he did so.
His fingers were long. The ends squared. The back of his hand deliciously veined. And he had a tan, his skin a beautiful caramel color. But there looked to be some scars on his knuckles, like he’d been in a fight (or more than one).
I was thinking about those hands on my hips earlier. I was thinking about them in other ways too. I was one hundred percent drifting into my Blanche of theGolden Girlspersonality of the trio I embraced, so I decided for safety’s sake to start a conversation.
“So, you’re a PI.”
“Yup.”
He didn’t seem old enough, but what did I know? He was the first private investigator I’d ever met (along with Mace, of course).
“How long have you been doing that?”
“Awhile.”
Hmm.
Not chatty or forthcoming.
I tried a different tack. “So do you have a cool nickname like Mace? Do people call you Jack?”
“Cap.”
“Cap?”
He finally turned to look at me. “Yeah. Cap.”
“What’s that short for?”
“I haven’t decided about you yet,” he said instead of answering my question.
“Sorry?”
“I haven’t decided about you yet,” he repeated.
“I heard you, I just didn’t get you.”
“Part of that is not knowing if I want you to get me.”
I didn’t say anything to that because I still didn’t know what he was saying, though what I thought he was saying was annoying.
Therefore, I turned away and whispered to myself, “You’re hot, you know it, but get over yourself.”
I didn’t know if he heard me, I also didn’t care.
Fortunately, a few minutes later, my food was passed through.
He gave it to me and said, “You’re welcome for dinner.”
