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“So, this is a date?”
“You tell me.”
“Maybe it is.” He takes my hand, turns it palm upward, and resumes tracing patterns on my skin. “I don’t go on many dates, so I’m not exactly sure how to classify this.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You don’t go on dates?”
“No. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date. Maybe in high school.”
I double over, laughing. “You’re shitting me, right?”
He’s lying. Has to be. When a man looks like he does, there must be a ton of women lining up to throw themselves into his arms. He looks down at my hand, which slipped away from his while I was giggling, and wraps his fingers around my wrist. Pulling it closer, he continues to trace the lines with his fingertip. Love line, life line, I’m never sure which is which.
“What other bizarre stuff?” he asks.
I blink and shake my head. His touch is very light, but it still raises goose bumps on my skin. Not just my arms, either. And I certainly don’t plan on removing my hand.
“Well, there’s the flower incident. I still have no idea who sent them.”
“Yes, I remember you mentioning it. What did you do with all the flowers?”
“Asked the hospital laundry department guys to help me take them over to St. Mary’s. We brought the flowers to the rooms of long-term patients,” I say. “I kept some. I shouldn’t have since I don’t know who sent them, but they were too pretty.”
His finger moves up along my forearm. “What else?”
“My ex broke into my place last week and stocked my fridge.” I look up at him. “He says he didn’t do it, but I don’t believe him.”
David isn’t exactly a relationship type of guy. I find it super strange he’d try to get back together with an act like that, but I can’t think of anyone else who could have done it.
“Your ex?” he asks. “Were you together long?”
“With all the off-and-on periods included...” I think about it. “Maybe a year.”
The finger on my forearm stills for a moment.
“A year,” he says, then continues with his pattern. “That’s a long time. Does he live nearby?”
“Yeah, but he’s in India right now. A yoga retreat or something like that. He probably sent someone to handle the fridge thing for him. Why do you ask?”
“I hear India’s nice. He should consider staying there. It would be good for his health.”
I squint my eyes at him. “Why? Because of the tropical climate?”
His fingers move back down to my palm. “Because of the air.”
God, I love this man’s voice. My eyes land on his watch and, reluctantly, I pull my hand away from his. “I have to go. I have an appointment with the vet for my cat.”
“I’ll drop you off.” He takes out his wallet and leaves fifty dollars, which is way too much money, then stands up. “What’s wrong with the cat?”
“He’s been puking since last night. I think he ate one of my hair ties again.”
As we’re crossing the street, a bunch of teenage boys rush toward us from the other side, shouting and fooling around asthey often do. The jacket guy’s hand lands on my hip, drawing me closer to his side, and he holds me tightly as the kids fly by in a flurry of waved arms and banter. Damn, I’m a sucker for guys with a protective steak.
“Is that normal?” he asks. “I heard dogs might eat anything, but not cats.”
“I don’t think so. He has issues,” I say as we walk toward his car. “But at least he’s stopped stealing food from the lady next door.”
“Why keep the cat if he’s got issues?”
