Page 70 of Love is an Open Book
“Can’t have that.” He doesn’t look at me, but I can hear the smile in his tone.
“You joke, but leaving things unfinished is my literal nightmare.”
“Good thing for you—” he brushes the stain on in even strokes “—I always—” the bristles of the brush slide along the wood, slow and rhythmic “—finish what I start.”
Between the skillful way he works and the innuendo in his words, I’m pretty sure my bosom is heaving like a heroine on a vintage stepback cover. I’m even more certain that, dangerous or not, I want to keep this thing going with Gavin. We might be headed for disaster, but I’m too caught up in the bliss of experiencing him this way to worry about the future.
Morris goes inside for a another drink, and I rise on my tiptoes to say, “Are you flirting with me?”
“Mia.” He sets down the paintbrush and gives me another one of those searing looks, eyes brilliant blue. “I’ve been flirting with you all summer.”
“I’m not talking about the trope tests,” I say. “I meant for real.”
“I never had to fake it,” he says. In that moment I realize, neither have I.
Morris left not long after that, and we didn’t waste any time. I showed Gavin my improvised writing spot in the shed, and he showed me how possible it would be for me to forget we’d left the pergola half finished.
The man kisses like pleasing me is his job. By the time we stumbled back out, what felt like hours later, we were both starving. Gavin’s pantry wasn’t up to the task, even though I ate all that was left of a package of fudge stripe cookies while he tended to the cats.
We wound up at our favorite burger spot. We’ve come here countless times, but never while holding hands, with the trail of kisses he left on my neck a recent memory.
The moment the server leaves with our drink order, I blurt out, “Is this our first date?”
His brows go up. “You’re asking me?”
“Who else would I ask?”
“I’m trying to follow your lead here,” he says.
Sweet of him, but also unhelpful. The server comes back with the lemonade I ordered and Gavin’s water. “On second thought,” I say, smiling apologetically. “Could I please get a cup of coffee? No cream or sugar.”
He nods and takes our orders, which we rattle off by heart.
“Tired all of a sudden?” Gavin asks, once the waiter has left.
After being up half the night, absolutely. But I also need to be alert for this conversation. “We have a lot to work out,” I say. “We’re here, like always. But we came together.” I point at him just as he opens his mouth.
“That’s what she sai—”
“Now is not the time, Gavin.”
He rolls his lips together against an errant smile and folds his hands on the table. “What qualifies as a date?”
I should know this. I write fictional dates for a living. “Romantic interest.”
“Check.” No hesitation. His eyes hold mine, clear blue in the afternoon light slanting through the shades.
I swallow, trying to keep my galloping pulse in check. Are we really doing this? “Attraction.” The word comes out surprisingly steady.
“Check.” Gavin’s voice is pitched low, but I hear him loud and clear.
“A desire to get to know the other person better, in order to determine compatibility.”
“I think we checked that one off years ago.”
We’re compatible, no doubt. Our tastes. How we spend our spare time. Our interests.
Physically, though, that’s new. A flush creeps up my neck. I bite my lip, embarrassed, for the first time in as long as I can remember, in front of him.
