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The flush starts to fade, and I feel my lips twitch. Truly, this is far more entertainment than I could have dreamed of when I decided on dinner at the local burger barn.
Suddenly, her eyes round all over again. Swallowing hard, she presses her fist to her chest, gasping. “That’s not water!” She’s a wee bit accusatory, if I’m reading her right.
“I assume you’re over twenty-one?”
She grabs the extra napkin by my plate and presses it to her mouth. “I am.”
I flick my hand across my forehead. “Whew.” But I’m only partially feigning my relief. Again, I don’t like to think of myself as a sleaze.
As she squints her eyes at me, I detect a faint smile, the first trace of humor I’ve seen.Yes.If I can make a girl smile, I’ve got a shot.
I frown. Why does my brain keep reverting to the wordgirl? By her own admission, she’s past twenty-one, though probably not by much. Technically, I’m still in my twenties, too, so how bad could something between us be?
I’ve not lived a saintly life—I almost chuckle at the understatement—but I’ve always tried to operate with a certain amount of honor, at least when I’m not on the job. I have three sisters, after all.
I gesture to the barstool she’s only half occupying. “Take a load off and stay a while.”
She hesitates, eyes roving. I try and imagine what she sees. I haven’t exactly gone full beach mode, and there is a reason for that. In fact, with my clean jeans, pressed white oxford, and tidy hair, a sheer necessity in light of all the publicity that’s recently been thrust upon me, I know I look downright respectable. Funny though, without a shirt, and one with sleeves, no less, there wouldn’t be a crisp enough layer cut to make me look decent. Truly.Disreputableis my specialty. In my work mode, there wouldn’t be a snowball’s chance, she and I.
Sitting here all cleaned up and spit-polished, I feel like a fraud.
Coming to whatever conclusion she has, she slides fully onto the stool and eyes my plate. “Those aren’t pickles, either.”
I look down at my plate. “Pickles?”
“I thought the green things were fried pickles.” Her pretty mouth twists.
Ahh. “Nope. Jalapenos.” I pinch one between my fingers and hold it up. “More?” I already know the answer.
“You could have warned me, you know. I don’t do spicy.”
“Hmm, sorry. My clairvoyance has its limits.” I shift barely nearer. “To tell the truth, I didn’t foresee any of this tonight.” My eyes drop to her lips, and I think something suggestive crept into my tone.
A pause, and then, “Neither did I,” those lips say before I drag my eyes back up to hers. I’m certain something passes between us. I’m hoping I’m right about what it is.
Instead, her gaze shifts to the TVs over the bar, the ones I was watching with a mid-level of interest before she blew in and changed everything. It’s mid-September, part of that snippet of each year when football and baseball are both in season. The Astros and the Cowboys are live, but since it’s a Monday, the college football game on the other screen must be recorded.
Her arms cradle the purse in her lap as she gazes up. “We lose this one.”
She has to be referring to the college game. It’s some West Coast team playing a much-closer-to-home Texas school, so I think I’m gleaning my first info about the beauty I’ve set my sights on. She did saywe.
Not that this info is relevant for what I’m suddenly hoping for once dinner is a wrap.
Another strange feeling, this one uncomfortable, comes over me, but I’m reluctant to pinpoint it because I have a sneaking suspicion that applying a name might prove counterproductive to my immediate goals.
Her eyes shift to the second screen. “I know someone who plays for the Astros. We’re sort of related, actually.”
“No kidding,” I respond, though in truth, I am totally preoccupied by something it has taken me ridiculously long to notice: her shirt. It’s a golden halter thing that goes clear to the throat, leaving the shoulders bare. The sides, however, are kind of loose and cut shockingly…forward. I don’t understand why decent women wear this kind of thing. That sort of exposure used to be reserved for women of lesser repute and the places they regularly inhabit. I’ve been in some of those places, by the way, my reasons for which I typically can’t discuss.
Let’s just say, her attire is…distracting.
I also notice that her arms are pinned to her sides, as if she too has recently realized the shirt might expose a bit too much. She probably threw it on thinking it wasjustthe style. Sorry, ladies. Men are men.They find messages even where there is no intent.
I know my opinions aren’t politically correct and I’m probably a sexist pig, but I call ’em like I see ’em.
Now, despite my views on these hot-button topics, let it never be said that I take these messages as anything more than apossibleinvitation…toask, that is. I am utterly without a perception of entitlement when it comes to the fairer sex. And yes, I still believe there is such a thing. Sure, I’m a rolling stone at the moment, but one day I might actually consider settling down with one of them. Time will tell, though I’m not convinced I’m cut out forforever.
Now, at this present moment, I don’t know what I think about the lady’s attempt to cover up. Depends on how I look at it, but I am glad to see she’s not entirely oblivious. She seems like a nice girl.
