Page 8 of One Small Spark
“Gross.”
It’s really not. Sure, it can be eye-opening to sit in on conversations where women twice my age admire fictional men, and discussion of sex scenes has been illuminating to say the least,but I’m not uncomfortable. These women look at me more as a surrogate son or nephew rather than some potential conquest.
But if boy toy is where Wren’s mind goes, I won’t object.
I unbutton the cuff on each sleeve of my flannel shirt and roll twice before pushing them a couple of inches higher. Nothing, right? It’s a move I’ve done a hundred times, but here, it earns a round of applause. I don’t understand the appeal, but I’ll take it.
Then again, I have no room to criticize. Wren could expose anything right now, and I would lose the ability to speak in coherent sentences.
The ladies discuss the wonders of forearms for another few minutes. Wren doesn’t add to the chatter. She’s quiet, her gaze stuck on my arms. Most likely, on my tattoos. I doubt she realizes how often she stares at them. I haven’t figured out if she likes them or can’t stand them. It’d be a shame if she hated them, since I have no plans to get all this work lasered off.
Her gaze shifts to meet mine, and she narrows her eyes, silently daring me to say something for catching her. Of course, I can’t resist.
“Are good forearms on your list of Greek god requirements, too?”
“No.”
Her heated response isn’t selling the denial.
“What do you like?”
Her gaze skims down over my chest, all the way to my knees before it pops back up to my eyes. Pink blooms across her cheeks, making my own blood heat.
“Brains.” She flashes a patronizing smile, her doubts about mine obvious.
I can’t help my smirk. It’s second nature around her and never fails to fire herup. “Same here.”
I could list more qualities I want in a partner. Motivation. Loyalty. An excellent sense of humor. Fire. But she doesn’t ask.
Conversation moves to the heroine’s emotional journey, but soon the ladies get distracted again.
“You know what I’ve never seen?” Fran pipes up. “A doorway lean.”
A couple of them nod agreement, but Nora asks, “What’s that?”
“When the guy puts his hands on a doorframe and leans in,” Rosetta explains.
Barb frowns at her. “That’s appealing?”
“Oh, yeah. It’s so sexy and confident, and just—” Wren snaps her mouth shut.
More shiny bits for my treasure hoard.
“I need to see that one,” Isabel says. “Shepherd?”
“There’s no doorway out here for me to lean against.”
Fran points over my shoulder. “Use the French doors that lead into the kitchen.”
“This is ridiculous,” Wren mutters.
It really is. This is my fourth month in the book club, and they’ve never asked me to do anything like this before. It’s usually typical book club fare—we chat, we talk about the characters, I learn more about romance tropes and clichés with each visit.
Today, they need visual demonstrations?
But it doesn’t bother me and seems to make Wren squirm. Whatever it takes.
Before I can get up, she pops out of her seat. “I’ll show you.”
