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"So, I'm going to stop flirting with you," he said, and there was no rational reason that my heart plummeted at that declaration. It was ridiculous. "You're too good to find yourself in, and then tossed out of, my bed. But," he said when I was sure I finally understood the term - though it was wholly inappropriate in this situation - the word 'crestfallen.' "That doesn't mean we can't be friends, right?"
"Friends?"
Friends?
With him?
An outlaw biker slash guitar player slash slut?
That certainly didn't seem like someone I would be friends with. Then again, I didn't exactly really, well, have any friends. So who was I to turn down someone who wanted to be that, right?
"Yeah, friends. I figure, you probably need a buffer in social situations. And, angel, I'm a great fucking buffer."
I didn't doubt that in the least.
"You don't even know me," I insisted.
"That would be the point in becoming friends, wouldn't it? Figure out what you're into, what music you like, all that shit."
All that shit.
"Um... why?" I asked, it being the most prominent question in my mind. What man just saw a woman, then decided to be friends with them? That was weird, right?
"Why do I want to be friends?" he clarified.
"Ah, yeah. Why do you want to be friends with me?"
"Why not?"
"That's not an answer."
He chuckled at that, leaning back in his chair. "I think there must be something really interesting about you. I want to know what that is. Even if I can't fuck you. Is that so weird?"
"Um, kind of, yeah," I acknowledged, making those eyes of his light up again.
"How about this? We have a trial friendship-date."
What the hell was a friendship-date?
"Ah, what?"
"You and me. We pick a day and a place. We go there. We do something. We talk. We decide if we can stand one another. If we can't, no big deal. If we can, we pick another time and place and do another thing. You know... like friends do."
At this point, I was pretty sure the night simply could not get any weirder. But that being said, what was there to lose, right? It wouldn't be bad for me to get out a little, even if it was with someone who was so darn good-looking that it would be distracting. If nothing else, it was another thing I could maybe tell my mom and Kenz to keep them off my back, maybe leaving out the part about him being a Henchmen. Though, it was something I definitely didn't need to tell Paine or Enzo.
Could you imagine that reaction?
Ugh.
No thanks.
I'd avoid that at all costs.
I had successfully avoided any of those big brother fits my entire life.
"Come on, you know you wanna. You totally know I'm awesome."
I laughed at that, shaking my head at his cockiness. "Okay, fine. How about Monday night at The Creamery."
"Ice cream," he declared, standing suddenly. "No bullshit tapas or sushi or other non-filling crap? My kinda friend. Alright, The Creamery. Monday. Seven?"
"Seven works for me." You know, since I had absolutely no plans that day except for work and unboxing one of my indie romance boxes I knew was being delivered that day.
"Seven it is. See you then, buddy."
And with that, my new, erm, 'buddy' was gone, slapping two of his biker friends on the shoulder, and all of them heading as a group out the doors, sending a gust of winter air through the room.
A promise of snow flurries, my favorite smell.
It almost felt poignant that I smelled it right then.
But that was crazy talk.
I shook my head at myself, wondering what was wrong with me.
When I looked up, Gala was watching me with her face all scrunched up. "What the ever loving hell was that?" she asked.
I didn't have an answer for her.
Because the same question was rolling around in my head.
What the ever loving hell was that indeed.
I guess I would figure that all out on Monday. At The Creamery. With my new... friend.
Or, maybe, that would just create more questions.
I had no idea.
But I did know that when I got home, for the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't take my book or e-reader out of my bag when I set it down inside the door. I didn't look around on Goodreads or Amazon for new releases. I didn't obsessively refresh the tracking page of my book boxe like it would magically make it from Chicago to Jersey in seconds.
No.
I didn't do any of the stuff I normally did.
Instead, I climbed into comfy clothes, got in my bed, and replayed the events of the night over and over and over and, yes, over in my head until my eyes got too heavy to keep open anymore.
Then I did the same thing all Sunday, even during cooking and traditional Sunday dinner with my family.
