Page 5 of Ted's Temerity
He claps his hands with excitement. “Oh! I agree! I mean, the cast was fantastic, but I just couldn’t get into it. I can’t pinpoint why. It just didn’t hit right.”
When his face falls with unexpected melancholy, I lean in and reach for his hand. “What’s wrong?”
Zephyr gives himself a shake and pastes on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing.”
“No,” I press, squeezing his hand, thrilled that he allows the contact to continue. “What’s wrong?”
I watch him lick his lips, obviously deliberating over the concept of letting me in, even just a little bit. Not that I can blame him: I’m a veritable stranger. But my instincts have me determined to comfort and help him.
“I just…” he exhales. “I miss it. Dancing professionally, I mean.” At my questioning glance, he shrugs. “I tore my ACL eighteen months ago. The surgery went well, and my recovery has been good, but my knee never fully recovered. I can dance, but not at the same level I used to, and not for as long or as intensely. It’s been a bitter pill to swallow, I guess.”
My heart goes out to him. After hearing him talk about his love of dance and music, I can only imagine how deeply this change of circumstances must hurt him. With his hand still in mine, I give him another reassuring squeeze. “I’m so sorry,” I tell him.
Charlie went through something similar after the wound to his thigh ended his career, but I never felt like I had the right words to comfort him then, and I don’t have them now for Zephyr, either.
“It could be worse,” Zephyr says, and it sounds as though it’s a mantra he tells himself a lot.
“It could,” I find myself agreeing, “but that doesn’t mean you can’t mourn what you lost.”
Shaking his head, he gestures around the room. Half the guests have left by now, but I’ve resolved to stay put until this charming man leaves first, unwilling to miss even a second of possible conversation with him. “We’re at a wedding. It’s like a rule to not talk about sad shit, or something.”
“You can talk about whatever you want,” I argue. “I won’t judge.”
I’ve got my own fair share of sad thoughts, after all, but no reason to bring them up. Not now, not ever. Is that healthy? Probably not. But there’s no place for them here. Especially not in the company I’m keeping right now.
“Zero judgment, huh?” Zephyr’s tone shifts into an attempt at being flirtatious. He bats long, dark lashes at me. “That’s a very open promise, Mister Masters.”
“I’mveryopen minded, Mister Cruze,” I flirt back, deliberately dipping my voice low.
I watch as my Daddy voice registers with him, sending a visible shiver through his lithe frame. I want so badly to make this beautiful man mine. My tiny dancer, to borrow a nickname from Elton John. But I know better than to rush into things. I’ve made that mistake too often in my lifetime.
There’s an interesting gleam in his eyes, something in his expression that hints at him wanting to test me on my playful words, but he blinks it away and says, “I do like the sound of that.” Then he raises his left wrist, twisting it to check the time on his watch, and sighs heavily. “And, on that note, I should probably get going. I have early classes tomorrow.”
My stomach sinks, but I don’t want to come off clingy or too aggressive, so I nod and rise from my seat at the same time as him. “Do you want to share a Lyft?” When he raises his eyebrows, I realize my mistake. I want to smack myself upside the head. Sheepishly, I explain, “I meant to our respective destinations. Not…I wasn’t…”
Excellent. I’m back to being a fumbling buffoon.
As frustrated as I am with myself, it’s also a sign that I genuinely like this man: that I’m feeling the kind of interest that has evaded me for years now. I can’t be mad about that. Even if I do wish I could prevent embarrassing myself quite as badly.
“I should hope not,” Zephyr’s lip curls upwards and he leans in, his breath ghosting over my ear as he murmurs, “I’d like to be taken on a real date before we start talking about going home together.”
He is so close that I can feel the heat of his body next to mine, and the combination of his proximity and those words has me hardening instantly. The knowing expression on his face as he pulls back, putting space between us again, tells me that he’s more than aware of the effect he has on people.
On me.
“You’re a naughty little thing, aren’t you?” I ask, unable to prevent the train of thought that follows my observation.
Is he a bratty boy? Is he into sexual punishments? How far does he push things? How far can I push him back?
“Hmm,” he pretends to think about it, and I’m delighted that he’s playing along. “Maybe you should give me your number so you can find out for yourself?”
Once again, I can’t help but find his confidence insanely alluring. It’s a far cry from the shy, sweet Littles I’m used to pursuing, and I’m pulling out my phone before my brain can even catch up. “Give me yours,” I insist, “and I’ll call you so you’ll have mine.” I’m not taking any chances here. I can’t risk giving him my number without getting his in exchange.
Obviously, if he were to decide that he’s not interested, I’d stop pursuing him (no means no, after all), but I’d like to make sure we’re on equal footing to begin with. If I don’t hear from him in the next few days, I’ll reach out. If he turns me down after that? At least I’ve enjoyed his company tonight and have proven that there’s still a chance for me to find someone to connect with after all, even if it doesn’t turn out to be him.
As if he’s reading my thoughts, he chuckles but rattles off his digits and I type them into my phone. I press the little green handset icon on my screen, and his pocket buzzes with the tell-tale vibration of a silenced phone.
“There,” I say, terminating my call. “Now we’ve got each other’s numbers.” Still holding my phone, I give it a little shake. “So, want to share a Lyft?”
