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“Anyway,” I start, flicking my wrist in the air in front of me. “Back to your first love. Not a dog. Or a person.” I glance across the street at the shops like they're going to give me a clue.
“Not yet, at least.” He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips as he gives me a slow perusal. “Maybe I've been waiting for the right person.”
My breath catches at the way his gaze feels on my skin, warming a path that sinks into my veins.
He leans into me, his shoulder brushing mine, and throws me a verbal life raft. Like he can see me treading water with his last comment. “Art.”
My eyes widen as I look at him in a new light. My gaze travels down his full sleeve of tattoos on one arm. Curiosity tingles down my spine. “Art?”
His mouth curls into a soft half-smile. “Aye. I spent two years out east at art school, came back home when I needed to, and finished here. Turned it into a career.”
“Oh that's amazing. What's your medium?”
His gaze flicks from his tattoos to my face. “Nah, I'm not that kind of artist.”
My face flushes for a moment, but I shrug off the embarrassment. I'm not all that artistic, despite Nana Jo's immense talent. None of those genes seemed to land on me.
I clear my throat. “What do you do then?”
“Custom artwork. Motorcycles and cars mostly, the odd boat.”
I steal a look at his hands, wondering how dexterous his fingers must be to paint on someone's vehicle like that.
“Not what you expected?”
I flick my gaze up to his face. The skin around his eyes is tight, at odds with the smile on his face.
I take in his expression, my heart lurching at the vulnerability hidden beneath the surface.
My hair tickles my shoulders as I shake my head a few times. I squint, looking at him through my lashes. “I didn't have any expectations.”
“Ach, c'mon, sweetheart. The bike. The leather kutte. This handsome face.” He pauses to send me a wink and a roguish grin. “You're telling me you didn't have any expectations of me?”
I laugh. “I have expectations about this allegedly infamous pizza, but no, not about you—or this . . . friendship?” Somehow the last word comes out more like a question than I intended.
He tsks. “Ouch. Friend-zoned already?”
I roll my eyes, but it's more playful than sarcastic.
“Aye, it's true. We've got one of the best pizza joints in the country and we're nearly there. Authentic Neapolitan style and everything.”
I nod, my stomach already on-board with this plan. “I think the only question left is: what do you like on your pizza?”
He stops suddenly, his head sinking back to bare his face to the sky. He breathes, this loud, noisy exhale that's somehow amused and dramatic. “Evangeline, please don't break my heart so soon.”
I stop in front of him, tipping my head up to watch the amused curl of his lip.
“If you tell me you eat fruit on your pizza, I'm going to have to reconsider my earlier proposal.”
My heart stutters over the word proposal, my mind sinking into flashes of lace and rings and white dresses.
Which is ridiculous.
I blink and force my mouth to curve into a smirk. “You know, peppers are technically a fruit.”
His head falls forward into something neutral, a teasing sort of sigh slipping from his lips. He starts walking again, as if my answer allowed him to move again. “Bell peppers. I'll accept that,” he says with a nod.
“But,” I say, elongating the word as we cross the street. “I do love pineapple.”
