Page 38 of Middle Ground
In an effort to make the most of this time I have, I ask, “What kind of pies do you bake?”
“Any kind, really, but my specialty is strawberry.”
I lift up my wrist and point to the spot where I saw the tattoo on hers. “Is that why you have one on your wrist?”
She looks surprised, as if maybe I’m the first person to notice it. Maybe it’s new.
Slowly, she nods. She rests her elbow on the wooden table and twists her arm so the strawberry is on display for me. I only noticed the vague outline and the colours the first time, but now I can see the intricate details.
“I used to bake a lot with my mom. She doesn’t really do it anymore, but I still do. When I have the time.”
I itch to trace the design of her tattoo with my finger, but I refrain. Instead, I trace it with my eyes, roving over each delicate seed and crease of a leaf on the stem.
“It suits you,” I say.
Then Meyer does something incredible—she blushes. It’s not the same flush that crept up her face that night she came to my room, drunk and adorable, ready to brawl. This blush is a pretty pink that dusts the apples of her cheeks and brings warmth to her otherwise cool appearance—the light blue of her eyes, the icy glares she offers me.
In an instant, the moment is gone. She snatches her wrist back and tucks in to her pizza. I let her retreat, picking up a slice of my own.
Being away from the inn, I sense that some of the fight has left Meyer. She’s still guarded, but the walls she has erected aren’t nearly as tall. Perhaps, with time, I could scale them entirely.
“Tell me something,” she says, tossing a piece of crust back into her box.
“What do you want to know?”
She laces her fingers together and rests her elbows on the table. Her chin drops on top of her clasped hands as she regards me. “How many suits do you own?”
“Eight,” I reply easily.
“Huh.”
I chuckle. “You sound surprised.”
She shrugs. “I figured a guy like you would have at least twenty.”
“It’s not about the suit. It’s all about the tie,” I explain.
She cocks her head, scrutinizing my tie. I arch a brow.
“Sorry,” she says with a crooked grin, “but I think that’s just about the nerdiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
I laugh.
After that, Meyer really starts to relax. We talk more about her baking and I tell her about all of my non-existent hobbies. Eventually, we finish our pizzas and throw the boxes in the garbage by the sidewalk.
An older man passes us, and he tips his chin in our direction. “Lovely evening,” he says.
Meyer offers him a polite smile. “It is. Have a good one.”
“Do you know him?” I ask as we cross the street to my car.
“No.” She shrugs. “He’s probably a tourist.”
Unlike earlier, the drive back to the inn isn’t fraught with Meyer’s unease. Instead, it’s full of a different kind of tension. The kind that tempts me to make a stupid decision when I park and turn to face her in the passenger seat.
“I, um—” Meyer’s tongue darts out, smoothing along her bottom lip. My eyes track its movement. “I didn’t have a terrible time.”
I grin. Coming from her, that’s the closest to a compliment I’m probably going to get. “Finally see that I’m not so bad?” I tease.
