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I jut out my lower lip and blow upward, forcing my bangs to fly up off my forehead in a wave. I know he’s waiting for some kind of explanation, but I honestly don’t know what to say. I settle for brazen honesty and hope for the best.
“The guy who interviewed me said while I was qualified … he just couldn’t help but think that work was my whole life. I guess he was afraid if he hired me, I’d be on my way to Workaholics Anonymous.
“Is it true?” Connor asks, sipping his coffee. I love how the oversized mug seems so small in his hands. My eyes trace the veins that map over them and up his forearms disappearing under the sleeves of the graphic tee he is wearing today. It’s red and has a logo I don’t recognize on it. It looks like it could be a beer logo. From a vendor maybe? I stare at it, but honestly, I’m imagining what his chest must look like underneath it. No doubt Tarzan here hits the gym with a regularity that shows.
“What?” I ask, not quite registering his question.
“Would you be on your way to Workaholics Anonymous?”
The server delivers our food, and I’m grateful for the pause in conversation. On the one hand, I could lie. I have never been a good liar, but I could tell him I’ve traveled the world, lived my best life and have loads of friends who occupy every second of my free time. Or I could tell him the unvarnished truth — I am a lonely, nearly middle-aged woman who works so much I can't even keep houseplants alive. I am married to my job and sacrifice living for earning one. That the seemingly innocent rejection of a pencil-tapping, throat-clearing man just out of his teenage years has finally forced me to admit my life is depressingly empty and really, really boring.
After taking the first bite of the pie, I decide on option two — but without the colorful metaphors.
“Maybe,” I finally answer and then quickly turn cowardly before disclosing more.
“Where did you go on your last vacation?” he asks, spreading preserves on his toast.
“San Diego,” I pipe up, feeling a bit prouder. I have been somewhere.
“Oh? When was that?” He licks off a dollop of jam and holy cow! Inner Sex Goddess can’t help herself and imagines all sorts of tricks that tongue could do.
I clear my throat and feel my cheeks pink a bit. I hope he’ll think it’s the heat of the sun and not my embarrassment that is causing it. Where the heck did all that come from?
“Seven years ago,” I confess.
“Seven? And you haven’t been on vacation since then?”
“OK, I admit. It wasn’t technically a vacation. It was my grandmother’s funeral. My family lives there. So, no. I guess the last time I went on vacation for fun was the summer before my freshman year of high school when my parents took my sister and me to Disneyland in Anaheim for the day.”
“Whoa! I hate to say it, Little Bird, but Mr. Pencil Tapper may be right. You gotta live a little.”
“Mr. Pencil Tapper? Is that what I called him?” I can’t help laughing out loud at myself a little.
Connor nods. “What about your boyfriend? Doesn’t he take you places?”
Subtle, Connor. Real subtle. I shake my head. “I had a fling with a coworker years ago, but it ended badly, and I don’t waste my time anymore.” Connor arches his right eyebrow and, if I’m not mistaken, a pleased little smirk begins to curl at one corner of his mouth.
“Girlfriends? You know like a girls’ night out kind of thing. You do that?”
I shake my head again.
“Bowling league?”
Another shake.
“Canasta? Knitting circle? Book club?”
“Nope. My life is as pathetic as it sounds. I work. But I’m very good at my work. And the field I’m in is very demanding.”
“What is it you do?”
“Advertising and marketing.” My answer earns a low, quiet hum from Connor as he spreads more blueberry jam onto his toast.
We finish the meal and he doesn’t ask any more questions, for which I am extremely thankful. I still catch him staring at me from time to time, though. Each time, he has that contemplative look on his face as if he’s trying to make up his mind about me. I have no idea what he’s trying to decide, but it’s incredibly unsettling. I wonder if this is what is meant by “undressing you with his eyes”? Wait, is this flirting? No. I dismiss the idea immediately. I feel exposed, not desired. The look isn’t lustful. At least not like the lust I’ve seen in a man’s eyes before. The memory of the last time I saw that makes me shudder and feel slightly nauseated. I push the thoughts aside.
We leave the restaurant after Connor drops a stack of bills on the table even before Micah brings our check. Then we climb back into his vintage sports car and cruise through traffic to theJourney’s Endbar and soon the sanctity of my apartment.
I click the remote to unlock the door of my hybrid and turn to face Connor, who leans against the fender of his car, arms crossed over his chest. His biceps are flexed, threatening to rip his tee at the seams. Sweet baby Jesus in the manger, this man is so incredibly hot! He’s Kevin Creekman and Brock O’Hurn knit together by Aphrodite herself and cast down from Mt. Olympus to live among us mere mortals. And he bought me breakfast. And drove me around in his fancy sports car. And lent me clothes. Oh … the clothes.
