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“It’s not that I don’t want to,” I insist meekly. “It’s just…we can’t.” I rub my forehead and avoid his gaze.
“We can, actually, but why don’t you tell me why you’re so adverse to going on a date with me.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares down his nose at me, mouth set in a firm line. “It’s just dinner. I like you. You like me.”
He actually seems a little mad, or maybe it’s hurt. Maybe both. It’s possible I’ve finally pushed him too far. Maybe he’s finally getting fed up with waiting for me.
But I never asked him to wait.
“We just spent thirteen hours together on Saturday and it was great,” he continues. “Or is it because we’d be alone?”
“No.” The lie tastes bitter. It’s definitely because we’d be alone, and in a romantic setting, without work to divide us. I don’t know how to be alone with him. Not without falling more in—
No. Nope. Nuh-uh.
Three weeks, Claire. It’s been three weeks. Stop yourself right there, little lady.
But his big brown eyes are peering down at me, and the confusion that lingers there makes my knees weak. I hate that he looks hurt right now.
“It’s just, I…I…” My brain searches for an excuse, and the one it comes up with is piss-poor at best. “It’s just that I’m not hun—” I stop mid-sentence when my incredibly loud, grumbling stomach cuts me off.
Avery cocks one self-satisfied brow, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Hungry?”
Shit.
***
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Avery
Ladies and gentlemen, I did it. I fucking did it.
Right now, Claire Thompson, my favorite little redhead, is sitting beside me in the back of a car, on our way to a restaurant.
For dinner.
It’s fucking happening.
Turns out, all I needed to do was get her incredibly tired and hungry. She gave in pretty easily. Lesson learned. I’m locking that one up top for future reference.
She sits in silence, fingers drumming on her bare knee, emerald eyes suspect as they flit around, but she’s here, so that’s all that matters. She keeps glancing over at me, opening her mouth like she wants to say something, but then clamps it shut, shaking her head and proceeding to stare out the window. I have to fight the urge to laugh at her several times throughout the fifteen-minute car ride.
Taking her hand, I lead her into the restaurant and request a quiet booth in the back corner, which only serves to spike Claire’s anxiety. She can say that it has nothing to do with not wanting to be alone with me, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I know she’s afraid of admitting her feelings for me. What I don’t know is whether she’s more afraid of admitting them to me, or to herself.
The waitress brings over a bottle of red wine and I watch Claire shift back and forth in the booth, pinching her bottom lip between her fingers. I can’t handle this, the nerves, the uncertainties, so when the waitress leaves, I slide up beside her and watch her eyes widen.
“What are you doing?”
“Sitting beside you.”
“I can see that,” she says with a hint of snark.
“Then why did you ask?”
“Oh my God.” Her jaw snaps shut and she rolls her eyes. Her shoulders sag before she gives me a sweet smile, dimples popping in those freckly cheeks of hers. She’s a freaking conundrum. “You drive me crazy.”
“Likewise,” I murmur, throwing her a wink that only makes her smile broaden.
This is what I need, her giving it up, dropping those walls, being herself, sass and all. She needs to relax, and when she’s pulling on her lips and barely speaking, I know she’s anything but relaxed.
