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“Sure.”
“There’s a language in Spain called Silbo Gomero that’s made up entirely of whistling sounds so people can communicate over deep ravines and narrow valleys.”
Nico looked at her with a mix of confusion and amusement. “That certainly is interesting.”
Ugh. It had sounded smart in her head, but now that the words were out in the open she wondered if maybe quirky language facts were not the best way to get a man into bed. But what else did she have?
She reached for her drink and brought it to her lips, tipping her head back until all the clear liquid was gone. More alcohol would help. And since she wasn’t much of a drinker back home, it wouldn’t take long to get her in a state of fuzzy confidence. Nico ordered them another round.
“I love languages,” she said. “Especially their history and how they evolve. Did you know that linguistically the Basque language is unrelated to any other European language? It’s a language isolate, which means there’s no demonstrable genealogical relationship with other languages. Fascinating, right?”
Oh god. Now she was on a roll. This always happened when she got nervous. She started spewing out facts like some kind of language trivia machine.
“And the Bible has been translated in some part into over three thousand languages.”
Somebody stop me. Now.
“I didn’t know there were over three thousand languages to begin with.” Was he smirking or smiling? Was he trying to plot a way out of this crazy encounter? It was so hard to tell.
“There’s over six and a half thousand, actually.”
He chuckled. The sound was rich and warm, liquid and honeyed. It sent goose bumps skittering across her bare arms. “You learn something new every day.”
“I’m sure there are so many other things you’d rather be talking about. I, uh…someone told me once, if I wasn’t sure what to say then I should share an interesting fact. It kind of turned into a personal quirk.”
A quirk that bordered on a crutch…but who was splitting hairs?
“Do you have a whole bank of them saved up?” He leaned an elbow on the bar, and Marianna swallowed.
He was easily a head and a half taller than her, and his hands dwarfed hers. His broad shoulders were close enough that she was oh-so-tempted to lean into him. And his long legs touched the ground, while hers dangled several inches above the gloriously patterned blue-and-white tiles.
“Yep. I sure do.” She sipped her drink and cringed a little at the taste.
It felt like everything had been going so well, and then she had to get all socially awkward on him. Ugh, story of her life.
“Tell me another.”
“You don’t have to humor me.”
He looked affronted. “I’m not.”
“You are.” She was sure her cheeks were as red as tomatoes.
Tomato comes from the Spanish word tomate, which was derived from the Nahuatl word tomatl.
Now she was spitting out facts in her own head! Not a good sign.
“You don’t know me very well,” he said, touching her arm. It was like being hit with a blast of hot air—suddenly her body temperature was burning her up. “But if I am not interested in talking to someone, they are usually very aware of it.”
If that was his way of saying he was interested in talking to her, then it was a funny way to put it. But he didn’t look like the kind of guy who put up with bullshit, so perhaps that’s what he meant.
“So please.” He motioned for her to continue. “Another fact.”
“Okay.” She thought for a second. “The word ‘cliché’ originated as a French word and was originally an onomatopoeia because it represented the sound that old printing presses made while making copies.”
“Fascinating.” He drained the rest of his drink, seemingly unfazed by both the strong alcoholic taste and the actual alcohol content.
Marianna, on the other hand, was feeling delightfully buzzed. “It really is. Language is a truly extraordinary thing. We have so many words at our disposal, and yet communication is such an incredibly complex thing that can so easily go wrong.”
“That’s because communication is more than words.”
He wasn’t wrong. Marianna realized she was communicating with much more than her words at this very moment. Her body was leaning toward his, her arm resting on the bar a mere fraction from his while she continually toyed with the strand of hair by her ears.
Classic romantic behaviors, if the novels could be believed.
“Very true,” she conceded.
“What am I communicating right now?” he asked.
Marianna steeled herself against the full force of Nico’s confident stare. His eyes were a pale, silvery blue, and against the deep warmth of his olive skin and the silky blackness of his hair, they were out of place and otherworldly.
Maybe he was a god who’d come to toy with mere mortals like herself.
“I can tell you’re confident. You’re obviously important enough to have the bartender jumping at the click of your fingers.” She studied him—noted the curious flicker of confusion across his face. An expression which was replaced by easy nonchalance in a blink. “You could probably have any woman you want.”
