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“But how will you know if you don’t like something if you’re not willing to try it? Just because you’re an obvious man’s man doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy things that aren’t dripping with masculinity.”
“I do. Just not that.”
“Well, then it’s settled,” she says matter-of-factly, arms crossing over her chest.
“What is?”
“I’m going to make you watchThe Wizard of Oz,and when you end up loving it, I’m never going to let you live it down.”
I don’t know why, but hearing her talk about things beyond tonight excites me in a way I can’t easily explain. Probably because I know an immediate connection like the one I feel with Kaia doesn’t come along every day—hell, sometimes ever—and I’d be an idiot not to want to hold onto that at least long enough to see if we could be something real.
“Already planning our second date, are we?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m already miles on the other side. Don’t you worry.”
“Anyways...” She tries and fails to hold in her smile. “What kind of music do you like?” She refocuses the conversation.
“Honestly, a little bit of everything. I’m not much of a music guy, but I do get down to some NF and Dax in the gym.”
“Didn’t peg you for a rap guy.”
“I’m not really. I just like the hit of the beat. Pumps me up.”
“You’re one of those gym bros, aren’t ya?” she says teasingly, though I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement.
“I wouldn’t go that far. I enjoy working out, sure. But I don’t eat, sleep and breathe fitness. I haven’t counted a fucking macro a day in my life.”
“Are you sure?” She gives me a quick once-over, briefly meeting my eyes when I glance in her direction.
“Is that your way of saying you think I’m hot?” I smirk.
“That’s my way of saying you have a lot of muscle definition. Not a compliment, a fact.”
“Why can’t it be both a compliment and a fact?” I’m convinced by the end of the night, my cheeks are going to hurt from smiling like such a damn fool all evening.
“I guess it can be.” She concedes. “So any other artists you enjoy, inside or outside of the gym?”
“I mean, I’m more of a radio guy. Just whatever comes on is fine. What about you?”
“You’re going to think it’s weird.”
“What?” I nudge her gently with my elbow. “Tell me.”
“Elvis.”
I bark out a laugh the second it leaves her lips, and not because it’s hilarious to like Elvis, but because of the way she says it.
“Elvis. That’s your favorite musical artist?”
“See, I knew you’d be an ass about it,” she grumbles.
“I’m not, I promise. It’s just... unexpected,” I admit. “What is it about Elvis that makes him your favorite artist?”
“When I was little, my mom used to play Elvis on this old record player we had. I remember her swaying and singing as she cleaned or did laundry. She always found such peace in his music, and after a while, I started to as well. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I learned why she played Elvis so often. It was because he was my dad’s favorite, and after he died, she said it made her feel like he was still there, busting out in song as he twirled her around the living room.”
“How old were you when he died?”
