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“I’m safe,” I argue in shock. Everything else he said isn’t new to me. I’ve said all the same things to myself. They are shitty friends that don’t care about me, but if I admit that, then no one cares about me. But they don’t have to worry about protecting me. I can do that on my own. And on the off chance I couldn’t, my brother would take care of it for me.
“You think that because we’re in public?” He asks, raising his eyebrows like I might be an idiot. “What if I was charming? What if I convinced you to take me home?”
“I…” I would take him. If he was charming, I would take him home. To the house I rent that’s far enough from anyone else for them to hear me scream or notice if something out of the ordinary occured.
There’s an urgent need to downplay the severity of this situation running rampant through me. I feel like I’m about to get in trouble if I answer the wrong way, and I wiggle in my seat as I consider how to get out of the situation. “I have neighbors,” I lie.
“Everyone has neighbors,” he grouses back, crossing his arms and closing himself off to me.
Indignation hits me hard. How dare he interrogate me like this? This is supposed to be a date “What’s your deal? Why are you harassing me about agreeing to a blind date? I’m not the first woman to agree to one, and in case you’re worried, you’re not charming. You’re making this date suck, and I’d never go home with you. You can leave, you know? You don’t have to sit there and be mean. You could just… go home. Alone.”
Jacob blinks twice before breaking into a grin. His arms lower away from his chest, and he turns his head away to chuckle quietly.
And I was wrong. He can be charming.
I try to hide the quickening of my pulse behind my drink. I’m not drunk enough for the thoughts I’m having to be considered justifiable. He pretty much just told me I’m a stupid girl with shitty friends, but since a smile is apparently all it takes to turn me on, maybe he’s right.
He drinks his third whiskey, and my heart moves down to my belly when I take in how big his hands are around the glass. He doesn’t look any older than me. He’s at least twenty-one, like me, but he can’t be much older. His face is clean-shaven, and although that’s normally not my type, it really shows off his strong jawline which makes up for it.
The waitress appears with another round of drinks for us, and Jacob moves the pickles into the middle of the table in offering. “I’m good, but thank you,” I tell him with a tight-lipped grin. Fried food goes straight to the hips, and mine are already too wide.
“You don’t like pickles?” he asks, those hazel eyes turning curious again.
“Yes, I do, but-”
“Have you tried these ones before?”
“It’s not nice to interrupt people,” I chastise, “but no. I have not.”
He shakes the basket around, trying to make them more tempting. “Taste one.”
Now he’s telling me what to do. He’s getting less attractive again. We just met each other, but he doesn’t seem to be very nice. He’s probably right about my friends not knowing him. Why would they set me up with a giant asshole? A giant confusing asshole, because… well… he’s telling me what to do, and I don’t hate it as much as I should.
“Jacob, I don’t need them,” I argue. I should probably get up from the table at this point and just get a ride back home. This wouldn’t be the first or the last failed date that my friends have set me up on.
“You don’t have to need them to eat them. It’s okay to want things, Brittany. Do you want a pickle? Would you enjoy a pickle?”
I tilt my head down at the table when I snicker at the innuendo.
“Childish,” he mutters, forcing down the smirk that tugs at his lips. “You’re immature.”
“I’m not immature. I’m uncomfortable! Give me the damn pickles!” I toss one of the stupid fried pickle nickles into my mouth and stop entirely. It’s crispy and crunchy, sweet, salty, tangy, and warm. It’s so perfect that my brain short-circuits. I haven’t had fried food in a long time, not that it’s made a discernible difference in the shape of my body. I’ve been wasting time not eating this kind of food.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” He doesn’t have the slightest smugness in his voice, no ‘I told you so’, just honest encouragement. Maybe he’s not that bad. Or I’m getting drunk. Either way, Jacob is becoming more bearable.
I let out a groan as my response. The pickles are good, and I wish they weren’t. They’re better than the salad that will be coming to our table for me soon. These pickles might get added to my usual order. Instead of three or four Pink Cadillacs, I’ll cut back to two. The pickles have a lot of salt, but maybe if I don’t eat all the salt from the rim of my glass it won’t be so bad.
