Page 39 of Book Boyfriends
“Okay.” Warmth shimmers in his eyes. “Social cues aren’t my forte. I can’t always read them, making it hard to know when I need to talk more or less, or even if what I said was appropriate. I sometimes tend to say the quiet parts out loud, and that may offend some people.” His face twists with self-reproach.
“Like asking if someone self-published because they can’t get an agent or publisher?” My tone is teasing.
Groaning, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “God, I can’t believe I said that. This is what I’m talking about. I often don’t realize what I said is inappropriate until it’s too late. There are interactions I think went great, only to find out they did not. Like with us.”
“You thought our date was going well?” I guffaw.
“Until you walked out… I thought it was banter.” He laughs. “But this is what I’m talking about. There are times, like with us. Then there’re interactions that leave me knotted up thinking it was shit, only to find out it wasn’t. It doesn’t erase the self-loathing and the tendency to avoid that person in the in-between.”
My mouth pulls into a reassuring smile. “I’ll never know what life’s like in your shoes, but I understand the challenges with people. It’s difficult for me in a different way.”
Social cues aren’t an issue for me. Between my training as a social worker and my natural ability to read people, I tend to be tapped into most interactions. Though, maybe too tapped in, at times. I’m prone to spinning a bit. So much of my interactions with others is tied up in managing their emotions or, even, the emotions of those not directly involved in that exchange.
“I have this ever-present need to keep people happy, to smooth away any potential wrinkles,” I say, fiddling with my shirt’s hem.
Outside of Hope, it isn’t something I talk about with most people. Not my mom. Certainly not my brothers. But for some reason, I’m sharing this with Davis. Maybe it’s his openness. Maybe it’s this strange comfort that relaxes me in his presence. Even when I was angry with him, I was secure enough to walk out on him, despite knowing how it would upset Jackson.NormalGeorgia would have just sat through that terrible date, if only to make my brother happy. Somehow, with him, I’m not normal, but strangely right.
“You could have fooled me. When I walked into the bar, you were chatting with other customers like you’d known them for years. You were so relaxed and free. I was immediately in awe of you. To be that self-assured to just be.” Admiration and self-doubt glisten in his eyes. “There are few people I’m truly relaxed around to just exist as I am.”
“It’s easier with strangers. There’s nothing to lose. As much as I want them to like me, it’s not like how it is with the people in my life. There isn’t an insistent tug to make them happy.”
He nods. “No wonder you’re a social worker. It fits.”
“Thanks.” My brow creases. “No wonder you do so many sports. Do the rules make it easier for you to be around people without having to actually people?”
He huffs a breathy laugh. “Look at you, Counselor Troi. Is someone psychoanalyzing me?”
A large grin curls my lips at theStar Trek: The Next Generationreference. I’d noticed theTNGphone case during our first date and will admit it ignited some of those initial butterflies about Davis. Butterflies that seem to be waking up again.
Smiling, he goes on. “Pop got me into athletics to help me have structured ways to engage with others. It also helps me exercise the anxiety that often twists inside me. It’s still my comfort zone.”
“How very Commander Riker of you,” I coo.
His entire expression brightens with the comparison. “God, I wish I were as smooth as Will Riker.” He leans his head against the headrest, a lopsided grin kicking across his face. “Jackson had mentioned our mutual love of the show.”
“Yeah?”
He grins.
“IsStar Trek: The Next Generationone of those topics you get a little fixated on?” For some reason, the question comes out breathy.
“Perhaps.” A seductive quality oozes from the slow way he pronounces the word, sparking a tingle low in my belly.
“Yeah?” Twirling a tendril of my hair, I bat my eyes.
The notion of Davis the jerk dissolves with every moment we spend together. Our flirty exchange doesn’t erase what he’d said, but somehow the memory gets a little fuzzier. The desire to know more about him pulses within me, demolishing any lingering annoyance.
“I have a Captain Picard bobblehead on my nightstand,” I breathe.
“God,” he groans. “That may be the sexiest thing a woman has ever said.”
“If you think that’s sexy—” I lean across the console, my mouth scant inches from his, and murmur, “I still have a DVD player, so I can watch the complete series with the special cast and crew commentary.”
In the inches between us, the air crackles with a dare. His minty breath caresses against my lips, teasing with the promise of how he’d taste.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze melds with mine.
Breath ragged, I blink. “For what?”
