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My stomach speared me with a dizzying flip.
“You first,” he said, leaning in a touch and resting his chin on his palm.
Being the subject of his absentminded teasing was one thing, but being the concentrated focus of his attention tested every ounce of my composure.
Uniformed waiters brought everything with barely a sound, and he thanked them without looking away, while I shifted in my seat and lost my trail of thought more often than I’d have liked.
“Mia, it’s me. It’s not an interview, relax.”
His free hand slid across the pink marble table to squeeze mine, and a hasty gulp of tea later, I cleared my throat and went on with my story.
“I’ve never guarded my phone more! Her snatching fingers are faster than the speed of light,” I concluded, gesturing with my fork.
Faint calluses I attributed to rugby brushed over my knuckles over and over, sparking an intoxicating mix of comfort and awareness.
“Yeah, they are. Frightening, really,” he mused, mock-solemn. “You guard it, Mia. Guard it with your life.”
He leaned in a little closer.
Whatever reprimand I’d loaded died on my tongue as his foot nudged my own under the table, a small peck, before settling close enough the warmth of his calf brushed over mine.
“Tell me about the movie. Was it just you and the bucket?” I teased, or tried to, but it came out more flustered.
“Mhm,” he hummed, starting on his coffee. “It usually is. Less distracting. I’m the boring type who watches the movie.” His eyes swept over my face, an invitation or a lure, or both.
“Nerd.”
His calf stroked against mine, spreading a low hum of awareness up my leg. I bit my lip and leaned into the teasing more, afraid of what I might say otherwise. “Is that code for ‘I’m a picky asshole’?”
His eyes sparkled with amusement over the rim of his mug, reminding me my tea was growing cold.
“Yeah, it is. Well spotted.” He flashed me a slow smirk, the sliver of praise washing over me like a flood and settling somewhere it absolutely shouldn’t.
The reality we were at a hotel hung between us, unspoken by either, but keeping the air the right shade of thick. His fingers closed around the vase of fresh flowers in the middle, then moved it to the edge of the table, and his body arched in a fraction more, his gaze sliding over me in a slow caress that prickled my skin all over.
Then, the strangest thing happened. The more he talked about the movie, the more his expression shifted, until something shone in his eyes and his free hand started to gesture, his whole demeanour alight in a way I’d never seen.
“There are so many ways to tell a story. Camera work is one of the more subtle ones,” he explained.
What a geek.
It didn’t sound scathing or mocking in my mind. I couldn’t say when the smile had crept over my face, or when the plates and mugs had been cleared away. The hum surrounding us like a bubble had retreated to a few whispers few and far between, underscored by the soft, almost mournful jazz.
He caught my smile with his thumb.
“You’re welcome to come with me next time.”
His thumb swiped over my mouth in lieu of a kiss.
My hand slid to his bare wrist—when did he push his sleeves up?—and my eyes searched his face with a dozen questions.
“Like a… date?” I squeaked, drawing another chuckle out of him.
Our legs had nearly tangled together under the table.
“If that’s not too scary for you?” he taunted, grinning.
A slow grin bloomed on my own face, stained red with my blush that he brushed his fingers over, before making a show of wincing, as if he’d got burnt.
