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I’m in such a daze I’m not really sure how I make it to my car, much less drive it. Yet ten minutes later, we’re tucked in a quiet corner of small café looking over the menu. “Everything okay?” Chris asks.
“Um, yeah, why?”
“You keep fumbling with your shirt.”
“Oh.” I glance down at my track shirt. “I’m not really dressed for a restaurant. And I probably smell. I came straight from the gym.”
“You don’t smell,” Chris assures me. “And your gym clothes are part of the reason I had to get you into a restaurant.”
I search his face to study him, not sure what he’s trying to tell me.
“You have a very nice figure, which I can’t help noticing in that outfit.”
I stay frozen in place, still not sure what I’m supposed to make of that.
“I can’t see your outfit through the table,” he explains.
“How did you know I was going to ask you about that?”
“Because every time you have a question you aren’t sure how to ask, you tilt your head to the side and look at me.”
“I do?” I straighten.
“You do.” Chris takes a sip of his coffee.
I bury my nose in the menu. I have no idea why I’m sitting here with Chris, why he suddenly asked me out after weeks of avoiding me, why he’s staring me, and why I even agreed to this in the first place. Actually, I know the answer to that one, and I mentally kick myself for not making a smarter decision. But hiding behind the menu doesn’t alleviate the weight of his stare.
“What?” I finally ask.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question?”
“Do you like them?”
“Like what?” I hesitate.
“The tires.”
“Is it important to you that I do?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” I shake my head.
“I don’t know. Really,” he says when I frown at him. “I guess since you were the one who pointed out that the old ones were kind of boring, I want you to like the new ones.”
“I didn’t mean for you to run out and get new tires,” I sigh.
“You still haven’t answered my question.” He fixes me with a gaze that makes my heart flutter.
“Yes. I like them,” I say dismissively, turning my attention back to the menu. “What are you going to get?”
“The omelet.”
“Which one?”
“Meat lovers.” I look up from the menu and find that Chris’s penetrating gaze hasn’t wavered. I feel the heat rush to my face and have the sudden urge to use my menu as a fan. It’s not until the waitress comes for our order that Chris takes his eyes off me, and I feel like I can breathe again.
