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"You can stop talking now, Ben. I get what you mean. I've never done anything like that either." Her gaze flicks to something past my shoulder. When I look, no one is there. Sam sighs and shakes her head, focusing on me again. "Can't believe I did that, but I don't regret having sex with you. I regret that the waitress saw us."
"Me too. Sorry we got caught, but not sorry we did that."
"Glad we straightened that out. Now, let's eat and talk about anything except sex."
"Absolutely."
We do just that—finish our meal and chat to each other about inconsequential things like whether crab cakes are better than cod, or how many pieces of garlic bread we can eat in one minute. Sam claims she can eat four pieces. When I make a sarcastically dismissive noise, she announces she will prove it to me. But I tell her not to bother. I take her word for it, no proof necessary.
How many girls would want to eat that much garlic bread? Sam has a healthy appetite and doesn't seem to care what anyone thinks of her. I love that about her. When I'm in Cockshire with my mates, I feel free. But when I go home to Mithoria, I remember all the reasons I can't be free, not when everyone has expectations that have nothing whatever to do with me. No one cares what I want. I have a duty, full stop. But when I'm with Sam, none of that matters. I feel even freer with her than with my mates, and I don't want to lose whatever this is that seems to be growing between us. I know I met her last night, but I already feel more myself than I ever have. Maybe that's why I keep seducing her. If I shag her twenty-four hours a day, maybe I'll never need to go home.
As we're leaving the restaurant, our waitress waves to Sam as if she wants to talk to her. I wait while the two women speak to each other in hushed voices that I can't understand. Then Sam comes back to me.
"She wanted to let us know," Sam says in that same hushed tone, "that she won't tell anybody what she saw and she doesn't think anyone else saw it."
"Oh. Good."
"Would you like to see anything else in town? Or should we just go back to my place?"
If we do that, I'll fuck her again. Can't control myself when I'm with her. That probably means I need intensive therapy, but I don't care. Still, I should avoid being alone with her for a while, until my libido has recovered from restaurant sex. We should've at least done it in a posh restaurant with wine, soft lighting, and piano music in the background.
"What else is there to do in lovely North Slipperton?" I ask.
"There's an outdoor skating rink."
"I don't know how to skate."
She hooks her arm around mine, her cheeks dimpling with a sweet smile. "I'll teach you."
"All right. But maybe we should go back to the Discount Depot so I can buy knee pads and elbow pads, probably head protection too."
"You'll be fine. Trust me."
Strangely, I do trust her.
And so I let Samantha Lockhart drag me to the skating rink. Mostly, I see parents watching from the perimeter while their children glide across the ice, some of them even doing acrobatic moves like leaping up and twirling. Not sure what the official terms are for those moves. I've never been interested in sports of any kind, so I couldn't even explain rugby to Sam if she asked me about it. Most of my mates love football, though I know Americans call it soccer. That's the extent of my knowledge about the sport. Dane Dixon loves bowls, but I know even less about that game. I think it involves rolling one ball into another very slowly.
I hope Sam doesn't ask me about sports. Telling her I'm awful at that rubbish because I have zero interest in it might convince her I'm a useless twat. Or do women prefer men who aren't into sports? I have no idea.
Sam rents us skates, but she has to help me put mine on. I can't figure out how to lace them up.
"At least you didn't get me pink skates," I say while watching her tie my laces.
"You have a phobia about that color, don't you?"
"No, not a phobia. Pink is for girls."
"Oh, I see." She glances up to smirk at me. "You're not uptight, you're a sexist."
I hope she doesn't really think I'm uptight. After our restaurant encounter, I don't see how she could think that. She must be teasing me again.
Sam pats my ankle. "You're all set."
Now if I can just stay on my feet and not fall on my arse in front of the most beautiful woman I've ever met…
I follow Sam onto the ice, though I cling to the wooden barrier that surrounds the rink. She takes hold of my arm, encouraging me to push away from the wall. This isn't too difficult. I might be wobbling a bit, but I manage to keep myself upright. Sam gives me pointers and offers encouragement. How many women would take the time to teach me how to skate? A little girl half my size bumps into me while she's executing some kind of spinning jump. I don't fall over, and the girl shyly apologizes. A child that size can leap around like an Olympic athlete? I have trouble staying on my feet—or rather, my blades—without my legs flipping out from under me.
"You're doing great," Sam says while smiling at me. "You're picking it up in no time."
