Page 4 of King of Rhythm
Then Bryce is reaching for me, his rough fingers smoothing so gently over my tight fists and shockingly, my hands relax into his touch as his warmth and calm transfers to me.
“Avery, I’m so happy to finally you meet you,” he says in the familiar deep voice that has my toes curling in my sensible flats and my stiff shoulders easing down from their bunched-up position. The man should do audiobook narration with a voice like his.
Before I’m even aware of it, he leads me to a table and pulls out a chair. I plop into it and in a daze, I feel the chair being pushed in. Blinking, I find Bryce sitting across from me and suddenly our height difference isn’t so apparent. Most of myheight is in my legs. Which was a curse growing up and being called a stork all throughout school. Or even worse, when a few family members lamented about my model height being wasted on me since I wasn’t model beautiful.
Aunts can be brutal when they don’t realize you can hear them picking apart your physical characteristics that you’re not even responsible for. I get my height from my dad, and apparently, my bland looks from his side of the family as well. Lucky, lucky me.
That’s not how Bryce is looking at me. He has a funny look on his face, but it’s not disappointment… It’s, well, I’m not sure.
“Are you okay?” I ask. I mean, his height was a shock to me, I’m sure mine is to him as well. No man likes a woman to tower over him. And while I don’t exactly tower, I’m noticeably taller, which has always been a sore point to men, even tall men.
Talk about rotten luck. I’m tall and yet most of the tall men want petite women. Doesn’t really leave much for us height-blessed girls.
My inner musings stop short at his husky laugh, which has my stomach doing a slow roll. I lean across the table, yearning to be closer to him, a decidedly odd feeling considering I wanted to flee only moments ago.
“I’m fine. It feels a tad surreal to be sitting here with you.” A bit of pink blooms high on Bryce’s cheeks above his short, brown facial hair, and if I thought he was attractive before, he’s downright adorable right now.
“It does,” I agree, my lips inching up in a smile as I ogle him. His picture, which I loved, somehow failed to completely capture him and the positive energy he radiates. There’s just something about him that draws the eye.
And I’m not the only one to notice.
The same server that greeted me is now at our table. Her eyes are locked on Bryce and her smile’s even wider than before.
“Good evening, I’m Marie. Sorry it took me a moment to get to you.” She hands two menus to Bryce, her brown eyes not leaving him. “Could I get you a drink? Or do you need a few minutes?”
My eyebrows shoot up when I swear she flutters her eyelashes at him. To his credit, Bryce doesn’t seem to notice, his smile and gaze going to me as he hands over a menu.
“Avery?”
Almost reluctantly, Marie tears her eyes away from him and looks over at me, seeming almost surprised to see me sitting here.
That makes two of us, trust me.
“Water, please,” I say, resting my clasped hands on the table and trying not to fidget.
“Same,” Bryce says, his eyes pinned to me.
“Coming right up.”
I’m dying to say something, but I don’t have the nerve, so I drop my gaze to the menu and pretend to decide on what to get even though I know I’ll get my usual, the Chicken Parmigiana.
Bryce clears his throat and says, “The Timballo sounds good. What are you thinking of having?”
Is he recommending it? Or just trying to make conversation?
This is the first date I’ve been on in a long time that didn’t consist of pizza, beer, and sitting around watching TV and my nerves are back in full force. Or maybe it’s my insecurities at being here with a good looking, older man that the server, a much prettier woman than me, was almost drooling over. The fact that I have no clue what Timballo is, isn’t helping matters, either.
In short, I’m a mess and I hate being like this.
“Avery?”
It’s a struggle, but I meet Bryce’s dark eyes and see no judgement, no censure, only warmth. If only everyone were like him.
“What’s Timballo?” It’s not what I wanted to say, but it pops out anyway.
“Like lasagna, only everything but the kitchen sink is tossed into it. Or at least that’s how my mom makes it.”
I latch onto that like a drowning man might to a life raft, because that’s what it is. A shred of normalcy in the vast sea of confusion currently rocking my mind. “Your mother’s Italian?”
