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"Okay. We're getting closer, but we're still not there. Don't invite me in but leave me in the front room. Don't use protecting me as an excuse to protect yourself."
She'd struck home. For a moment she saw something angry in his eyes, but he reined it back.
"Fair enough," he said. "But first tell me why you stopped dating. You've given me some of it, but I'd like to know the other part of it. It's something beyond what they've done to you, isn't it?"
She bit her lip. Well, it was no worse than what she'd already dumped on him, but if he didn't have something comparably fucked up to share, she was going to be pissed. "I got tired of relationships kick-starting the same emotional shit. Can I trust him? When will he hurt me? It's the typical cliched romance conflict crap that happens in everyone's story, and I got tired of being in the same play. But you...I can't predict anything about you, so it doesn't make me tired. Just scared."
"What are you scared of?" His hand settled on her shoulder again, fingertips tracing patterns. He really didn't like hearing she was afraid, and she was just weak enough to respond to the light in his eyes, the clo
ser shift of his body, that said he wanted to fix that.
"That I'm still in the same play. I just don't recognize the set."
He digested that. "Okay, but I'll be the first guy you've dated who can give you something different."
"What's that?"
He grimaced and met her gaze. "I'll be dead before I can tear your heart out and stomp on it."
At first she thought he was saying something over-the-top romantic, like he'd die before he'd ever hurt her. But as he kept holding her with his piercing stare, it sank in. Her hands reflexively gripped his. "What?" she said faintly.
He swore under his breath. "I didn't mean to say it that way. You're a pushy woman, love. Let me take you out to lunch where we can talk. There's a Bob Evans about a mile up that way. I'll meet you there."
From his closed expression, she supposed he wanted to take separate cars so that she had an escape route. She didn't know what she'd want. She was torn between his hints of wanting to share pancakes with her, or not having a choice about falling in love, and the implication he was...
No, she wasn't going to say it in her head. She was too confused. She focused on the other things he'd said that she could process.
He was right. The upfront things, like how he felt with a sub in session, smacked of every lame excuse for infidelity she'd heard. Yet she'd already known about his sessions, had experienced one herself first hand, and she'd been immersed in the BDSM world these past couple months, witnessing the interactions between those who practiced it.
She thought her whole information dump upon him had been too much, too soon. She and he hadn't come far enough in a relationship where infidelity could be a crime committed against it. They hadn't even actually had sex yet.
But he'd taken her outpouring in stride, as if he felt strongly enough for her that he'd welcomed hearing every worry she had. Maybe that was also due to the BDSM dynamic. As he'd said, boundaries and structure were set quickly, to keep things safe and protect feelings. Only where was the line between letting love happen spontaneously and trying to control everything? She thought she'd obliterated that line a couple failed relationships ago, and now she was out to sea with him, trying to figure out how this was going to work or if she could walk away. And he'd just thrown a new wrench into it. A pretty damn significant one.
As they were taken to a booth and handed menus, he touched her hand. "Why don't we keep it casual for a few minutes before we launch into anything?"
From the strained look around his mouth, she figured that was more for him than herself, but she was okay with giving him that breathing space. He'd implied she'd pushed him into a corner, and she guessed she had. But Des didn't seem the type to let himself be pushed around, so she held onto the hope that he was willingly having this conversation with her.
As she glanced at the menu, he pulled out his monitor and fitted it with a lancet. At her glance, he passed it to her. "Want to try it? Test your blood sugar?"
"Oh, God, I'd pass out. I could never stick myself."
"Do me then." He held out his hand. "Just hold it against my finger tip, then press that button."
She did, a quick click. He captured the tiny drop of blood on a test strip. At a beep from the monitor, he glanced at the resulting number and put it all away. Removing his pump from his pack, he slid it on under his clothes, connecting it to the injection site cannula by feel, his hand moving under the shirt.
"You've been doing this a long time."
"A very long time." He checked something on the pump screen, made an adjustment, then tucked the device back into the wallet he hooked over his belt. He flipped his shirt back down over it and picked up the menu as the waitress returned.
They ordered, and when the waitress asked if it would be one check, Des nodded. "I'll be taking it," he said. "My treat."
"I should have ordered the Belgian waffles to go."
"You still have time." Whatever he saw in her face had him reaching across the table and gripping her hand. "I'm sorry I've caused you any sadness or doubts, Julie. I really enjoy being with you."
"I love being with you." She gave him a weak smile. "That's kind of the problem. Sorry. I guess it's impossible to get someone without baggage once they pass thirty."
"I bet my baggage outweighs your baggage."
