“Are you sure?” I asked, trying to be the neutral middle.
“Oh, yeah, it’s no problem. I’m really stuffed anyway,” she added. “And I’m getting a headache.”
Okay, she’d literally given every excuse possible. I was just about to call her on it when Jonah said, “Well, bye, Claire. See you round.”
She held my gaze for a long moment, seemingly trying to convey something with her gaze. But I couldn’t read her mind. Finally, she gave up and smiled. “I’ll text you later?”
“Yes, please. Drive safely.” I held up my hand in a little wave.
She nodded, then disappeared into the bar crowd. I took a deep breath and hoped she wasn’t mad at me. Two seconds later, my phone buzzed.
Claire:Just kiss him already and put me out of my misery.
My cheeks flushed bright red, and I tilted my phone out of Jonah’s eyeline as quickly as possible.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
I shook my head and tried to form words. Claire was crazy. Was that why she left? She thought Jonah and I were going to make out? She knew our whole story. What in the world?
“Fine,” I eventually croaked. “Everything is fine.”
Jonah slid close again, pressing his side against my side, and tapped the top of my phone. “You know, I’ve been thinking, actually.”
Pressing my glass to my cheek for a second, I set my phone facedown on the table and gave him my full attention. “Thinking about what?”
“We should delete our dating apps.”
If we were being honest, I hadn’t actually looked at a dating app on my phone in months. Maybe a year. But I knew he checked his, so I was more than a little confused. And what was more perplexing was why he was grouping us together as if we were the same. He used his to get laid. Or at least that was what I assumed he did. There was no actual confirmation that that was happening. Jonah was very kiss and don’t tell. But I was actually looking for a fulfilling, long-term relationship. Okay, not right this moment... or this year... but that was the ultimate goal. Find a husband.
“Why?” I asked, unable to hold back a small laugh. “Why would we do that?”
“Well, how much luck are you having via the Internet lately?”
That was an easy answer. “I haven’t really been looking to date lately, so none. But—”
“And how many couples do you know who’ve met online?”
“Well...”
“That’s my point. You want to get married someday, right?”
“Yes,” I answered definitively, hiding the strength of my answer behind a sip of my drink. “That is the plan. Marriage, a few babies, a house, the whole thing.”
“Same,” he agreed, but his voice had dropped to a low rumble. He stretched his arm out against my thigh and played with my fishnets over my knee. His long fingers felt especially warm against my cool skin. “The whole thing. Marriage.” He rubbed his pointer finger in a slow circle just above my kneecap. “Babies,” he said, adding a second finger. “A house.” He included his thumb, gently squeezing my thigh and moving his hand a little higher. I suddenly found it hard to breathe, and I certainly couldn’t look at anything other than his hand against my leg. Suddenly, he turned his head to gaze at my profile. “So we should definitely delete our dating apps.”
His sexy, seductive touch had basically rendered me brainless. So I was having trouble connecting the dots. “Okay, wait. If we want those things, why would we get rid of the one tool helping us get them?”
Now his hand was just full-out splayed across my mid thigh. The heel of his hand and his thumb were so high up on my leg that the hem of my dress actually obscured them. Swallowing was becoming very difficult.
“All the couples we know have met in real life. Face-to-face. Not online. We have to start looking at the people around us.”
Seriously, my rational thinking was hardly working. But I couldn’t help a breathy laugh. “You think my future husband is already in my life?”
He cleared his throat. “Maybe.” There was a slight pause before he added, “I’m just saying you’re going to have more luck finding him out here”—he squeezed my thigh again—“than on your phone.”
If I stared at his hand for a second longer, I was probably going to slide off this bench and land in a puddle of goo on the floor. So after a fortifying drink of my cocktail, I bravely lifted my gaze and met his warm, intense, on-fire eyes. “You might be right,” I heard myself say.
“I know I’m right.” And then he smiled. It was intimate and secret and so mysterious that I was very suddenly assaulted by warm fuzzies. No, not even warm fuzzies, scorching-hot fuzzies that tingled through my entire body—head to toe.
