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By now I’m used to his excessive caution: signaling before he even leaves the parking spot, braking as soon as the light turns yellow (even though he has more than enough time to pass through the intersection before it turns red), driving exactly the speed limit, if not a couple of miles an hour under it. He’s worse than a ninety-year-old, and I kind of love it.
“So what’s this stop you have to make?” I ask as he makes a left out of the lot instead of a right.
“You’ll see.” He gives me the Kingston version of a smirk, which is really just a cute, slightly devious smile.
“Well, that’s kind of cryptic. Am I supposed to guess?”
“You can go ahead and try if you want.”
“Are we going to the SPCA to pet cute puppies that need a home?”
“No, but I could arrange that if it’s something you’d want to do. I actually had an endorsement for the SPCA last year, and I try to go once a month to their adoption days: sign autographs and that kind of thing.”
“Why are you so perfect?” It makes it hard to stick to the whole “we can just be friends” rule when he tells me things like this.
“I’m not even close to perfect.”
“I’ve yet to find a flaw that isn’t endearing.” I tap my lip. “Are we going to a seniors’ retirement village, where all the little old ladies will pat your butt and you’ll smile and pretend it’s not happening?”
“Uh, no, and I seriously doubt little old ladies would do things like that.”
“If I was a senior and you showed up at my retirement village, I’d totally pat your butt.” I hold up a finger. “Let’s pretend I didn’t say that.”
“You’re actually welcome to pat my butt anytime you want, but I don’t know that it would bode well for the platonic rule.” He winks, and I laugh.
I’m glad we both seem to be getting over the whole semihookup. Or at least we’re comfortable enough with each other that we can joke about it.
Ten minutes later he pulls into the parking lot of what looks like a bar, at least at first glance. “What is this place?”
A smile breaks across Kingston’s face that’s somewhere between excitement and mischief. “You ready to have some fun?” His tongue peeks out and slides over the chip in his front tooth.
I hold up a hand. “Okay, that right there has to stop.”
His smile drops and his eyes dart around. “What has to stop?”
“What you’re doing. Or what you just did. The being all cute and sexy and saying things that can be interpreted with innuendo.”
He frowns. Even his frowns are sexy. This whole platonic thing is rough. “There wasn’t any innuendo.”
“You don’t think so?”
“I asked if you were ready to have some fun.”
“You think so?” I adjust my pose and uncross my legs. I run my palms down my dress-pant-covered thighs and part them slightly. Yes, I’m overdoing it, but I’m also proving a point. I drag my tongue along my top lip, then bite the bottom one before I put on my best phone-sex voice. “Are you ready to have some fun, Kingston?”
He strobe blinks at me a bunch of times. His voice is two full octaves lower than usual. “I didn’t say it like that.”
“Maybe not, but the impact was the same as if you had. Let’s get out of this car before the pheromones take over.” I open my door and jump out before we make any informed bad choices.
Kingston is much slower to get out of the car. He makes a covert adjustment in his pants, and his cheeks are red, which makes me feel better about my own hidden response to the in-car flirting.
Regardless, he holds the door open and ushers me into the bar, but he keeps his fingertips pressed against the dip in my spine. Initially we enter a bar, but beyond that . . .
“Uh, Kingston, are those people throwing axes?”
“They sure are.” He settles a palm on my hip and pulls me into his side.
I don’t understand the sudden touchy-feely business until some bearded hipster dude with a tattoo sleeve approaches us. “Kingston! I’m glad you made it!” His eyes flare just a touch when he notices me. “And you brought a friend, I see.”
“Ronan, this is Queenie. Queenie, this is Ronan. He runs this place.”
Ronan laughs. “King and Queenie? That’s epic.”
“We’re just friends,” I explain.
Kingston’s fingers flex on my waist. “I’ll take a half pint of the house lager. Queenie, what would you like?”
“Whoa, wait a second. He’ll have a pint of milk, and I’ll have a root beer.” I poke Kingston in the chest. “Alcohol and ax throwing do not go together.”
“Just friends, huh?” Ronan snickers. “Stall four is reserved for you. Boot up and you’re good to go.” Ronan saunters off.
