Page 53 of Corkscrew You
“Nate, the whole point of me giving you time,” I say, “is so youwon’tbecome stressed out of your mind trying to juggle everything.”
His face, which has been unusually demonstrative, closes up like a clam. Does he think I’m insulting him? Or that I’m not as into this as he is? I wish Chiara were somehow spying on us behind a two-way mirror, so she could give me instructions through a hidden earpiece.
I guess I should just be honest.
“If I had it my way,” I tell him, “we’d be doing it right now on that desk.”
Left eyebrow twitch. I’ve triggered a reaction, though its epicenter is probably a lot lower down.
“But, given that’s not going to happen,” I continue, “I want things between us to be as relaxed as they possibly can. I don’t want you trying extra hard or worrying about me, because that’s pressure you don’t need.” I pause. “Am I making any kind of sense? I’m not sure.”
“You are,” he replies. “I just … I don’t want you ever thinking I’m not fully committed.”
I shouldn’t smile, but I can’t help it. “Nate, no one who’d met you for fivesecondswould be in any doubt about your level of commitment. Toanything.”
His poker face is on its maximum setting.
“Are you saying I’m uptight?”
Bite your lip, Shelby, or you’re going to burst out laughing.
“I’ll have you know,” he says, “that I’ve been granted membership of the Can’t Pull A Needle Out of Our Asses With a Tractor Club. It’s seriously exclusive. You have to sit a test. Like Mensa.”
Figure it’s OK to laugh now, so I do.
“Shit,” he says, but he’s smiling. “Guess I’ll be able to count on you to keep me grounded.”
“And don’t forget our code word,” I remind him. “Though ‘Jesus’ might give the wrong impression in some quarters. How about ‘cookie?’”
“‘Cookie’ will give therightimpression?”
“It’s kind of like the word ‘squirrel’ is to dogs,” I explain. “Instant universal distraction.”
He mulls it over.
“Will it be a reciprocal code word?” he asks. “OneIcan use when you’re being incredibly irritating?”
“Don’t you mean ‘if’?” I say.
“No.”
Didn’t even hesitate, the swine.
“OK,” I say. “But webothhave to agree to abide by it. There will be no ignoring or overriding of the cookie warning. Deal?”
I stick out my hand.
“Deal,” he says.
We shake, and he winces again, flexing his hand as if checking for damage.
“How the hell does someone your size have hands that strong?”
“Years of vine work,” I say. “Pruning, harvesting, tying, etc.”
“You and your friend, Jordan, should start an all-woman wrestling team.”
I adopt my most innocent-evil look. “I’d rather wrestle you.”
