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Smirking, again surprising myself, I clarify, “A walk. Where ya from?”
“Oh,” she says, giggling. “I’m from London. I just moved here with my aunt.”
No wonder she has a posh accent.
“Are you from around here? My name is Poppy Yates. I’m a Pisces. I prefer thunderstorms over sunshine. And my favorite color is blue.”
I know she’s trying to be funny, trying to break the ice, but I don’t reply. Instead, I focus on fixing her bike so she and her vanilla-smelling self can ride the hell away from here.
“How about you?”
“How ’bout me, what?” I counter quickly, before silently cursing myself. She’s just trying to be friendly.
“That’s your lead-in to tell me all about yourself. It’s called making conversation,” she replies lightly.
“Right, well I’m not interested in makin’ conversation. All done,” I reveal, not answering her question or giving her my name.
Coming to a stand, I almost bump into her because she’s standing so close. She’s short, maybe five-three. I’m six-three, so I guess most people are relatively short compared to me.
“Th-thanks,” she falters, taking a step back.
I move the kickstand so the bike is ready for her, but she quickly reaches out and grips my wrist.
On instinct, I recoil forcibly. “Any more of this and there’ll be less of it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she quickly apologizes, her cheeks taking a reddener. Even though she’s probably lost in translation, my firm tone has hinted what I mean. “I just wanted to thank you for helping me.”
“No bother. See ya.” I need to leave, but am stopped in my tracks.
“Are you always this rude? Or is it just me?” she says bluntly, placing her hands on her hips.
I am shook by her confidence and can’t seem to stop grinning when she’s near. She’s annoyed, and it gives me great satisfaction seeing her pissed off.
“Don’t flatter yerself, Babydoll,” I frankly reply. I don’t care what her name is. She’s Babydoll to me.
When a lopsided smirk falls across her full lips, I want to reach out and touch them; I want to know what a genuine smile feels like. I haven’t smiled for so long, I’m almost envious of her lips.
But I’m also curious to how they’d feel; how they’d taste.
“Oh, so you’re always a rude sod then. Good to know.” Her smile soon turns to a scowl as she hops onto her bike.
I laugh deeply in response. The surprises just keep on coming.
A part of me wants to stop her as I actually don’t want her to go. She interests me, and I don’t know why. Aye, she’s parful, but that’s not it. There is something…more.
She rides past me, head held high, and doesn’t see the pothole. The wheel of her bike gets caught, and she shrieks, falling off or, more accurately, falling onto me. I break her fall, and we both tumble onto the gravel road.
I’m lying on my back with her pressed to my chest and her face inches away.
Her breathing is uneven as she clearly had a fright. Mine, however, are measured and calm. She is soft against me, and her warmth doesn’t suffocate me like others have.
I take a moment to admire her beauty. Her eyes are green, her lashes long. Her pink, glossy lips are full. I can see the arch of freckles across her cheeks and nose.
Whatisthis feeling inside me?
She licks her lips, and I have the urge to follow her tongue.
She whimpers, moving in my arms. It’s then that I realize I’m touching her without wanting to claw out of my skin. I suddenly don’t like it. I don’t like this vulnerability she infuses in me. We both shift at the same time, appearing to realize this moment is a little too intimate for mere strangers. I know better than to be distracted by a pretty face.
