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“Let’s not forget you’re not in love with your husband either.”
“Nope. He’s totally not my type.” He was so very much my type. A heartbreaker disguised by a sexy face and a great body, who I’d also noticed was sweet and kind.
“I’ve heard great things about him,” Elliott teased.
I smiled. “Like what?”
“Well, for starters, he cleans up after himself.”
I rolled my eyes. “So overrated.”
“He’s hot.”
“Cocky.”
“Yes, he has a big dick too.”
This time my eyes nearly fell out of my skull when I rolled them. “You know what they say when a man is preoccupied with the size of his dick…”
“That he’s honest and a really good fuck?” Elliott did this cute little nose-wrinkle thing that said he was being playful. “What is your type, though, really?”
That was both a hard question and not. “I don’t care what they look like, not really. Though I won’t pretend I haven’t been distracted by a pretty face more times than I care to share.”
“It happens to the best of us.”
“I want someone kind and compassionate, not just nice. Nice is good, but kindness comes from the heart. I want someone who cares about others. Also, it doesn’t matter if he’s successful, but I’d like him to have a job.”
“The nerve!” We were still walking, our arms bumping against each other’s every once in a while. Heat radiated off him and wrapped around me as he asked, “What else?”
“I want someone who makes me laugh and likes to spend time with me. Someone who wants to cuddle on the couch at night and taste the things I bake, who shares the things he loves with me too. I want him to tell me his hopes and dreams, and what’s hurt him, and what’s made him who he is. I want someone who looks at me like I made their whole day when I bring them coffee and a homemade muffin in bed for breakfast. I want someone who does the same for me.” I wanted a man who would see something or hear a joke and it would make him think of me, so he would send me a photo or make sure he told me when he came home at night. “I want someone I love and who loves me in return.” Apparently, that was too much to ask.
Elliott stopped walking and turned to look at me. His stare was intense, a caress against my skin.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing. It just doesn’t sound so scary when you describe it.”
“Is it something you want?”
He shook his head, and we started walking again. “It’s not something I don’t want either. It’s hard to explain. My thoughts and desires just don’t seem to work that way. Do I believe love exists? Yes. I’ve seen it in my parents and others. Is it something I have this deep need for? No. And I’ve never felt it. I’ve liked people, sure, and I like sex and dating, but again, I’ve never had that craving for more. It’s never been deeper than that, and it’s hard to wrap my head around feeling those things.”
“It’s hard to wrap my head around not wanting or having feelings like that.”
“Different strokes,” he replied.
We were definitely opposites that way. It was that knowledge that would keep me safe from falling for him.
Elliott said, “Let’s hang out today.”
“We are hanging out.”
“You know what I mean.” When I frowned, he chuckled. “You look surprised I’m asking.”
“I am!” Though I couldn’t say why.
“I mean, we’re husbands. We should at least become friends, learn more about each other in case my parents quiz us.”
“Oh God, don’t remind me.” I joined him in his laughter, before shocking myself by saying, “Sure.”
Santa Monica was very eco-friendly and had great green public transportation, so we took a bus to the pier instead of our cars. It was about four by now, the weather a cool sixty, so definitely not a beach day. Still, shops were open and people were browsing, eating, and riding the Ferris wheel.
“You hungry? Want to grab an early dinner?” Elliott asked, and I agreed.
We went to a Mexican restaurant, where they seated us at one of the window booths so we could look out at the ocean.
“Do you want a drink?” Elliott handed me the menu.
“That’s what got us into trouble.”
“You’re such a good boy.” Elliott winked, and my stomach got fluttery. He cocked his head slightly, as if realizing his words did something to me, and I looked away. That was…weird.
“Can I get you guys a drink?” the waiter asked.
Elliott looked at me.
“I’ll take a diet Coke.”
“The same,” he said.
“Where did you go to college?” I asked him.
“UCLA. You?”
“I did the Pastry and Baking Arts and Management program at the Institute of Culinary Education.”
“How long is a program like that?”
We talked about school, then continued getting to know each other, only slowing down to order our tacos.
