I hear Stephen’s voice echoing in my head—make a move—and now I’m listening. I frantically try to concoct a plan that’s obvious but not blatant. Unmistakable but subtle.
I realize these things are oxymorons.
Ben lopes back over and hits theDOWNbutton. We’re standing shoulder to shoulder and the missed opportunity is soul crushing. Can he feel it too?
“You okay there?” he asks, nudging me.
My expression must be murderous. I need to calm down. No sense in frightening small children.
“Sure, fine.”
I’m unconvincing. I’m desperate to get our moment back. I need todo something—anything. I fake-smile at him and let my eyes rove down his body. My brain zeroes in on the shirt-sweater. It’s definitely a sweater. I think.
“I recognize this,” I murmur, reaching out to pinch his sleeve. I can’t help myself—I have to touch it. It’s calling to me with its siren song.
He throws me a quick smile as a faint shade of pink blooms up the back of his neck, coloring the tips of his ears. His body language is suspicious and I puzzle over it until it dawns on me.
Wait—did he wear this sweater onpurpose? So I’d be reminded of the night when, by his own characterization, I’d thrown myself at him?Pawedhim, as he put it? Is this a signal or am I reading too much into it?
“So.” He clears his throat, breaking into my reverie. “We’re just heading down to the parking garage to grab my car. The range I like is in Maryland, but it’s a short drive.”
“You have a car?”
“Yeah. Though I don’t get to use it all that much.” The elevator dings and he ushers me in, pressing the button for the basement and leaning against the opposite wall. As far away from me as he can get.
“What kind of car is it?”
“You’ll see.”
“I bet it’s a gas guzzler and terrible for the environment.”
He rolls his eyes. Guess the moment is truly broken now.
When the elevator thuds to a stop, he leads me out with a hand on my back. “I’m just over here,” he says, nodding to the right, and I follow a step behind him until he stops in front of a sporty dark blue SUV.
“I’m clairvoyant,” I poke as he pulls open the passenger door for me to climb in.
I’m immediately enveloped by the Ben-scent of his car, the masculine tang of leather seats commingled with his signature cinnamon. It must be some sort of mints—Altoids?—and as he crosses around to thedriver’s side, I inhale so hard I probably sprain my sinuses. Can you orgasm from a scent? Because I’m dangerously close.
His car is pristine, lending credence to what he said about not using it much. There’s no trash lying around, no empty containers of food, and no clutter, just a jacket laid across the back seat and an old parking stub in one of his cup holders.
“They say the car you drive says a lot about you,” I comment as he reverses out of the space.
“So what does my car say about me?”
That you’re a neat freak who smells orgasmic.
“That you’re a sensible father of three who coaches youth soccer.”
He laughs. “More like I’m six-four and need leg room.”
I snoop in his center console and discover a sleeve of CDs that I immediately pluck out, seizing the opportunity to mock his taste in music. I am not disappointed.
“Fall Out Boy!” I hoot. “Ja Rule!” He tries to grab it but I hold it out of reach. “Creed! Oh, this is too good.”
“Those were from high school, okay? I haven’t bought a CD in years.”
He maneuvers us up and out of the parking garage, turning out onto Eighth Street. It’s barely five o’clock and we still have some light left, but the sky is starting to turn.
