Page 17 of Gave Proof Through the Night

Something in the back of my brain sits up very straight. My hand, still on his chest… goes still.

And then I look up.

Brown eyes. Warm, amused, and here he is, dripping matcha, looking at me like I just walked out of a very bad dream.

Oh, says every cell in my body, in unison, with feeling. Oh, no.

It’s him.

Georgetown Waterfront. The watch. That wrist… attached to those forearms. Be still my heart.

“You,” I say.

“Me,” he agrees.

I keep dabbing, because if I stop dabbing I might say something unforgivable, like I’ve thought about you four times a week since May.

“What were you after this time?” he asks. “My wallet? My phone? I’ve got approximately eleven dollars in quarters from the hotel vending machine. Take your pick. I’ll even hold still.”

“I wasn’t after anything.”

He looks down (where I am now essentially feeling up his abs with a Coffee Loft napkin) then back up at me. The corner of his mouth does something complicated.

“You can stop now. I think it’s reached peak absorption.”

I straighten up. Toss the ruined napkins. Attempt, and largely fail, to look like a woman who did not just spend a full minute giving a stranger’s abdominal region a tender little massage in public.

“Right. Sorry. This really was a genuine accident.”

“Sure.” He says it the way you’d agree with someone who’s just told you the dog ate their homework, and the dog is, in fact, sitting right there, looking guilty. “Coincidence. Got it.”

And there’s that grin again, tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s got somewhere better to be and isn’t in a hurry to get there.

“It’s not my fault the universe keeps doing this to you.”

“The universe isn’t the one doing the mustard trick.”

“The mustard trick?”

“It’s really a common pickpocketing scheme in big cities. Someone squirts mustard on you or some other substance. They then offer to help clean it off. While you’re distracted, an accomplice lifts your wallet, phone, or… watch.”

“That’s…” I’m about to say ridiculous, but he’s totally got a point. “Okay, fair. That one’s on me.” I cross my arms, mostly so my hands have somewhere to be that isn’t near him. “Although, for the record, I think you’re handling this remarkably well, considering I just gave myself a tour of your six pack.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He says it lightly, and something about the way he says it makes my stomach do a small, traitorous flip.

That’s when I notice the hat.

I genuinely don’t have words for it at first. It’s a baseball cap… but the color! The color is a pukey, milky orange. Not quite peach. Not quite sherbet. More like salmon that’s been left out on the counter too long.

Across the front, in letters big enough to be visible from a passing satellite, reads: GILL POWER

It is, objectively, kind of a girly hat. The lettering’s got a little wave to it, there’s a tiny cartoon bubble coming off one of the letters, the whole vibe is “I went to summer camp and all I got was this lousy hat.”

And here’s the genuinely upsetting thing. On literally anyone else, this hat would be a crime against fashion. Yet, on him it somehow works. The same way everything else about him apparently does. It’s truly unfair how hot he is. I kinda feel sorry for every other hat-wearer in this establishment.

I point at it. “Okay. I have so many questions.”

He blinks, reaches up, and seems to discover for the first time that he is wearing a hat. His hand goes still on the brim like he’s reading it through his fingers. Like braille. Like he’s hoping it’ll have changed since this morning.