Page 57 of I'm Not Yours
“Why? What’s it to you?”
“I like you.”
I hardly knew what to say. He liked me? “How can you like me? We don’t know each other.” But I liked him. I knew I did. How can you not like a man who risks his life to drag you out of a frothing ocean, then insists on getting you warmed up, listens to you chatter on about your hippie family as if it’s the most fascinating tale he’s ever heard, then whisks you off to the emergency room and waits, listening carefully to what the doctor says, before taking you for hot clam chowder, garlic bread, and onion rings? How can you not get a tingle?
“This is what I know about you so far, June.”
I put my coffee down because I was gettinghot.
“You like walking on the beach during rainstorms. Me, too. You get distracted by butterfly shells, I’m surmising, because you find beauty in small things. You pull seaweed out of your mouth after almost drowning, but you don’t seem a bit squeamish about having it in there in the first place. Your dry humor shows even after a terrifying event, you never once skipped anywhere near hysteria, which most people would have, you didn’t complain about being soaked and freezing, you were pretty darn calm actually, and in fifteen minutes flat you go from being soaking wet to . . . utterly lovely. Not that you weren’t lovely soaked, you were. You were a soaked, lovely sea lady.”
He thought I was utterly lovely! Oh, calm down, my heart!
“I saw you hug Morgan on the stairs, you were nice to the two boys in the emergency room with giant bumps on their heads, patted one of their backs after they vomited in a wastebasket, then hugged the worried mother. You spoke kindly to the nurses and doctors. You’re strong, you’re brave. How can I not like you?”
I was semistunned. “Do you always figure people out this quickly?”
“No.” He smiled again. “And I haven’t figured you out, either. I’m learning about you, and I can tell you’re a complex person. And interesting.”
“I’m temperamental, moody, abrupt, and blunt, and I’m not in a good mood at this time of my life.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s how it is. Eat some garlic bread.”
“I love this stuff.”
“Me, too. Eat it.”
“You can tell me why you’re not in a good mood at this time of your life on our next date,” he said.
“Date? This is a date?”
“Let’s call it a date.”
“No.” Oh no, I couldn’t do that. It wasn’t right. “This is not a date. Nope and nada.”
“What is it, then?” He had such a manly voice, low and controlled . . . sexy.
“It’s an . . . it’s, well . . . it’s a survivor’s luncheon. You saved me, so we’re eating together.”
“Great. Let’s have a survivor’s luncheon again. How about it?”
I ignored a heavy weight, a trunk of lead, on my heart. “No.”
He studied me for a few seconds. “Okay.”
“That’s it, then.” I squashed down a terrible rush of disappointment. He was going to give up that quick? Not surprising for a man. Slightest bit of resistance and they backoff. No, you’re not worth the work or the worry, they’ll find some other two-legged female to pursue. Darn, I do not think much of most men.
“No,” he chuckled. “I’ll ask you again. Probably tomorrow. Maybe you’ll be in a better mood and more open to a survivor’s luncheon?”
“I doubt it.” My voice was snappish, but I smiled, then covered my smile with my napkin. He wasn’t giving up! He was rebooting, so to speak.
“Maybe I’ll sing to you.”
I laughed at the image. “Maybe I’ll sing back.”
“Maybe I’ll play my guitar under your window.”
