“Yeah. Even though she has no reason to be.”
“What does that mean?”
I wave his question away as if to say,Story for another time.
“Well, what’s wrong with being a hopeless romantic?” he tries instead.
“Oh, I don’t know, how abouteverything? Let me count the ways. Putting up with crappy behavior you’d never accept from anyone else. Constantly putting your dreams last. Unrealistic expectations about how your life is going to turn out.” I tick them off on my fingers. “Besides, the termhopeless romanticdoesn’t even make sense. It’s so depressing. I don’t know why I’m the only one who sees that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it. By its very definition, it’s saying romance is hopeless. So why do people act like it’s some swoon-worthy character trait?”
“I don’t think it’s a bad thing to be optimistic. Glass half-full.”
“Youwouldthink that, with your ‘perfect woman’ list. That’s hopeless if I’ve ever heard it.” He frowns. “Whatever. I’ve seen too much. In my sorority, I had a front-row seat to every worst-case romanticscenario. You wouldn’t believe how many women act like every problem can be solved with a bouquet of flowers. I mean, how dumb.” I make a retching noise.
“Now you have something againstflowers?” He looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.
“There’s nothingwrongwith flowers, per se. They’re just such a waste. If a man gives me flowers, I’m what, supposed to swoon? They require a bunch of work to keep them alive, only to die within a week regardless? How about getting me arealgift that lasts, that I can savor for longer than a few days?”
He blinks. “Wow. You reallyaren’ta romantic.”
“When you think about it, flowers are really the perfect metaphor for relationships,” I muse. “They’re beautiful for a time, then they start to die and they stink and you work desperately to save them and bam! They’re dead. It’s over.”
“You should write greeting cards.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “You’re funny tonight.”
He nudges my shoulder. “I’m always funny. You just don’t want to admit it.”
“And humble too.” I fight a smile. “Anyway, I suppose what really gets to me is the expectation that some guy is just going to swoop in and carry you off and all your problems will be solved. The end.”
He quirks an eyebrow. When I realize why, I flush. “Present situation excluded, of course.”
He smirks, repositioning my body to gain a better grip, and I watch his considerable muscles flex and stretch as he resettles me in his arms.
It is sexy as hell.
In a flash of memory, I recall something I’ve been dying to know and span my hands around his biceps, stretching my fingers to see if I can get them to touch. It isn’t even close.
“I knew it!” I yell in jubilation. “I need a third hand!”
He looks at me like I’m certifiable. “What are you talking about?”
“Your muscles, of course.” I sigh, petting his sweater-clad arm like a pony.
A surge of exhaustion suddenly hits me like a tidal wave. The last couple of days have been so draining and I’m tired to my bones. I close my eyes and let my head fall to his shoulder, reveling in the feeling of being taken care of for once. I can hear him breathing in little huffs, feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath me. It’s hypnotic.
Being so close to Ben is a peculiar thing. It’s doing strange things to my brain. For the first time, I can smell him. He smells like... like...
I press my nose into his neck, inhaling deeply. His stride momentarily falters.
“What are you doing?”
“Smelling you.” I inhale again. There’s a faint, intoxicating cologne scent and... something else. “You smell like a forest mixed with cinnamon and...” I sniff again. “Soap.”
The ghost of a smile curves his lips as he resumes his previous pace. “Oh yeah? Well, you smell like vanilla and coconut.”
