Page 59 of Ten Day Affair
Neither do I.
“Nice night,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m narrating a weather app.
“Mmm.” Sam tips her head slightly. “Nice view.”
Her eyes never leave mine.
The server drops off a bowl of mixed nuts and disappears without fanfare. Sam leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low enough to be swallowed by the music.
“So, how was your day?”
The question lands somewhere between playful and normal. It catches me off guard. Like a couple catching up after a long day
But I like it.
“It was typical, I guess. Except I did most of it with a view of the ocean. I lean in just enough to make it count. Her face is lit by string lights now, warm gold flickering in her eyes.
A few feet away, someone laughs loudly, obviously tipsy. The band slides into a mellow version of Crash Into Me, and the chords run low and steady through the air.
Salt clings to the breeze, mingling with the buttery scent of someone’s basket of fries.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, she tips her head, watching me like she’s weighing a choice. “You know what I like about surgery? The problem is clear. Diagnose. Cut. Fix. Close.”
I nod once, waiting.
She takes a longer sip. “People aren’t like that. People are messy.”
“And you don’t do messy,” I say.
She arches a brow. “Yeah.”
I'm not sure how to respond to that, so I let it hang between us for now.
Our bottle of wine sits half-empty between us. I refill her glass, then mine. I don't pour too much. Just enough to stay in the space we’ve found tonight. She lets her fingers linger on the stem, nails pale pink and perfect against the glass.
A gust of wind pushes her hair into her face. She tucks it behind her ear without looking away.
“I keep thinking about the other night,” she says, quiet enough that I have to lean in again.
The crowd’s louder now. A couple at the next table isdoing a tipsy sway to the music. I don’t care. All I see is her.
“Yeah?” I murmur.
Sam’s gaze flicks to my mouth, then back up. “I pulled away first. But you were right. It was a bad idea.”
I don’t reply. Is that a statement or a question? I can't help but wonder why she's bringing that up now. Is the setting the stage?
Right now, I'm not so sure it was a bad idea because my body’s already reacting to her tone, her eyes, the quiet dare in every inch of her posture.
“We can still walk it back,” she adds, almost absently, playfully.
"Oh, we can?"
“Start from scratch.”
“But I kinda like our start.”
