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“And they spout boring little facts about their lives and ask boring little questions about each other simply because, well, because silence is scary.”
As I end this little rant, he gazes at me silently, taking everything in.
“Hmm.”
He’s doing it on purpose, isn’t he?
He’s just making the silence last an eternity for a science experiment, to see how long before I bust. To get back at me for the weird car caroling and the freezing cold vigil beneath the tree.
A peppy bit of Christmas music dances through the room, the loud rumble of laughter and chatter across various tables weaving in and out of the hubbub, and yet there he is. Stoic eyes the same deep, rich color as the living garland hanging all around us. Grounded amid the fray.
I didn’t mean to share this revelation about myself. I mean, we’ve just met, and frankly, I don’t think I can recall being quite so honest with anyone in a long, long time. Those three little words I confessed speak volumes beyond what I actually said: Silence is scary because what if you are doing something somebody else thinks is wrong? It bothers me. It affects me. It keeps me up at night.
But to my surprise, he doesn’t throw up an inquisitor’s magnifying glass and parse out my statement. He goes another way.
He lightens the mood.
Picks up his coffee again and says, “In that case, I’d have to say I’ve been ‘undisturbable’ my entire life. Two of my uncles are litigators. My mom is the scariest HOA president and rose garden club leader you’ve ever met. My aunt works for the IRS. One cousin is a parole officer. I come from a long line of people who make Thanksgiving interesting.”
I smile a little and he continues, “But if you find the fact that I can be so confident that I do what I want without considering other people’s opinions a strength, rest assured it’s also a deep and cutting weakness. Believe me, I’ve got plenty to work on myself there.”
And just like that, he’s smoothly and subtly put us on equal footing.
We’ve both unveiled a weakness.
And I feel like he’s done it on purpose.
A kindness.
“Well,” I say, feeling the invisible straps bound around my chest loosening, “if you ever want to drop off a little cockiness, I could use some.”
“You sure? It can be a curse.”
“I’m working through my own curse. Believe me, a little aplomb could do me good.”
He grins. Puts out his hand. “It’s a deal.”
I take his hand. Shake it. And for the third time today, it feels like a little magic has sprinkled down on me.
Just as none other than Dom Stewart stops at our table.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me. Angel Eyes. Back in the flesh.”
Chapter 3
My grip tightens on James’s hand as everything in my body, from my ears to my toes, clenches at the sound of Dom’s voice.
Angel Eyes. Only one person insistently called me that since middle school, when I won the obscure Miss Congeniality title during that silly, giddy, prepubescent weekend. I swept the title under the rug, but he never did. Instead he announced it from the rooftops every chance he got and turned it into a nickname that shortened and twisted from Miss Congeniality to Miss Angel to Angel Eyes, transforming an innocent award at that little pageant into the allusion that I flirted with the judges and flattered everyone else under the sun to win. How many times did I try to defend myself only for him to laugh back at me? How many times did I whisper while he talked loudly to everyone else with his arm slung around me that no, I never did any of those things?
But of course the squeak of a mouse can’t be heard over the roar of a lion, and he never much liked when I talked anyway. The whole name was one of those “innocent” embarrassments to me that fueled the fire of a game to him.
Dom always loved to see me squirm.
I compose myself instantly, whipping my hand back from James and into my lap as though afraid that, without restraint, it might rush up to do something outside of my control.
Strangle him?
Hug him?
