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“Because you're clear about your intentions. And you care that Casablanca is bullshit. And you keep that dog-eared paperback in your pocket even though it's falling apart.”
“I'll never defect to team Kindle or team Nook.”
“And you listen to me. You really listen.”
He moves closer, his voice a whisper. “I know it's not fair to ask, but I want to know where you see this going.”
“I have no idea,” I say. I can entertain fantasies of running off with Luke, but I can't really imagine building a life with him. Not yet anyway. Not when I've known him a week.
“Usually people don't start affairs until they know what they want.”
“And you have nothing to do with that?” I ask. “You certainly didn't flirt with me, or come on to me, or flat out ask to fuck me.”
“I asked if I could make you come, not if I could fuck you. I think that's an important distinction.”
“Asshole.”
He moves closer to me, pressing his arms around me. “Listen, I'm sorry,” he says. “You're right. I invited you to my apartment. I knew what would happen, and I was quite aware of your engagement when I started talking to you.”
“But?” I ask.
“But I really like you.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“It's a terrible thing. For both of us.” He runs his hand through his hair again, his eyes scanning the walls. “I wasn't planning on liking you.”
“You had a plan?”
“I'm not smart enough to plan,” he says. “But I didn't think we'd do more than have dinner. Maybe make out drunk at the most.”
“Drunkenly,” I correct him.
“I'm not in the best place for a relationship either, but I can't stop thinking about you.”
“It hasn't even been a week,” I say.
“We don't have to get married tomorrow. But I want to spend more time with you.”
“I can do time,” I say.
“Tell me if you only want a fling. I can take it.”
“I don't know,” I say. “A week ago, I was sure I was going to be with Ryan forever. I was sure I would never fall in love again or have great sex again or truly enjoy someone's company again.”
Fuck, I said fall in love, didn't I?
“Great sex, huh?” Luke asks.
“Let's spend time together and see where it goes? No expectations.”
“Does that mean it could go somewhere?”
“It's been three days,” I say again.
“Okay, I get your point.” He slides his fingers between mine, squeezing our palms together. It's such a simple, obvious display of affection. Everyone here probably thinks we're dating. Could we be dating? Could we be anything without Ryan in the way? Should I be worried someone will recognize me and snap a picture of me with a guy who is clearly not my fiancé?
We wander around the aisles downstairs. I try to steer the conversation into neutral territory, but I can't think of much to say. My nerves over the show seem irrelevant now. I know how to act. I know where to go and what to do every day. I'm rusty, but I'll remember, and I'll get back into the swing of things.
