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“How so?”
“I still get on my bike. I haven’t given it up altogether.”
“But you gave up the…the…what do you call it? The road life.”
“Circuit.”
“You gave that up.”
He looks ready to say something, but whatever it is, he shuts his mouth and just nods. “You’re right. Kind of.”
I don’t want to get into the ‘kind of’ part of that statement.
“I appreciate your coming out here,” I say, even though it’s simply a nicety. “But my answer is no. It will remain no.” And then I add, “I’m sorry,” as if I have something to apologize for.
Cade stares at me.
His eyes are squinted at the sides, as if he’s concentrating hard, trying to figure out whatever it is I’m holding back from him.
I refrain from squirming in my spot and instead, I cross my arms around myself tighter.
“Did you know that your body language gives you away?” he says, surprising me.
“Excuse me?”
“You’re holding yourself back. You’re hiding more than just being pregnant.” He stands up from the counter and my heart races, as I fear he’s going to walk closer to me.
He doesn’t though.
He simply stands by the counter.
“Your eyes too. They tell a different story than anything you say. You’re scared of something.” He says the last softly, like he’s trying really hard to figure it all out.
Trying to figure me out.
“You’re a tough one, Tatum. Dylan. Sorry. You put on this hard show, but you’re just a scared girl.”
“I am not!”
“You are.” He nods a few times, his eyes still doing that squinty thing. “But of what? That’s the question.” Not giving me a chance to answer—not that I would—he starts to pack up the food. “You can have this. I can’t take it where I’m going.” He doesn’t look at me as he boxes it all up.
Then, like with the pantry and the glasses earlier, he finds a drawer that is the home to pens and pencils, only to pull out a dry erase marker. “If you change your mind,” he starts, avoiding me as he walks to the extra-large stainless-steel fridge, “this is my number.” He scrawls out a series of numbers in very male penmanship on the dry-erase board adhered to the side. “Rehearsal starts in two days. That’s plenty of time. They want you, too. They’ll make adjustments for you.” He caps the marker and finally turns to look at me.
“It won’t happen.” My eyes drop down to wear he flips the marker between his fingers, the red cap moving around and around.
“One can hope.”
I shake my head and force myself to look at him again.
Why does he have to be so damn handsome? With his thick hair that clearly needs a pair of scissors to go through it? And his strong forearms that are on show now that he’s pushed up the sleeves of his dark long-sleeved shirt.
They don’t listen.
He won’t listen.
He hasn’t listened.
My inner snarky teenage girl comes out. “Don’t hold your breath.”
