Page 45 of I Knew He Was Trouble
“Looking for the flying pigs.”
“Hilarious.” He rubs the back of his neck, and I remember when he did the same motion in my house and the way his muscles rippled—it must be his nervous tick.
My eyes move to his arm, which is covered by his jacket tonight, saving me from staring at his muscles again. I drag my gaze back to his face to find his smug grin.
“I can take the jacket off if you’re missing the view.” He stands and shrugs it off.
“Hard pass.”
“As rock hard as my chest?” He smirks.
I stalk over to him, poking his chest, which does, in fact, feel more like stone than flesh. I yank my jammed finger back and hold it. “You hurt me.”
“You’re the one who decided to pick a fight with my muscles.”
I take a step closer, unwilling to back down. “Stop talking about your muscles.”
“I’ll stop talking about them when you stop touching and staring at them.” He folds his arms across his chest, making the rippling, veiny muscles return. My eyes move to them. “Ah, ah, ah. There you go again.” He leans down and tips my chin up. “My eyes are up here, Anderson.”
The sparks between us are enough to light up an entire fireworks show. And I don’t mean the good, lovey-dovey, romantic-tension sparks. We’re talking aggravating, you-get-under-my-skin, I-want-to-wipe-that-grin-off-your-smug-face level of sparks.
Tyler’s pupils dilate as he looks down at me. He doesn’t say anything else. He just removes his hand and sits down like nothing happened.
“What are you doing?” I sputter.
“I’m getting ready to order dinner.” He extends a menu to me. “Are you going to eat or not?”
I grab it and take the seat across from him with a huff.
“You don’t have to sound so pained to eat a meal with me. As you said, a lot of women would love to be in your shoes.”
“You’re lucky that I’m starving.”
“Yeah, I’ve won the lottery tonight,” he deadpans.
Sighing, I skim the menu, looking for the most expensive options. I mean, if Tyler’s paying, I may as well indulge in something better than I’d normally buy for myself.
The waiter comes and takes our drink orders. He returns with my Diet Coke and more water for Tyler and takes our food orders.
“I’ll have the lobster ravioli.”
Tyler doesn’t even look at the menu when he makes his selection. “And I’ll do the salmon primavera.”
I glance at the menu, wrinkling my nose at the sheer number of vegetables listed in his dish and that the base is quinoa rather than pasta. Who comes to an Italian restaurant and doesn’t even order pasta? It’s more expensive than my dish, but I can’t imagine why anyone would want to pay more for quinoa than lobster.
Tyler hands our menus to the waiter and taps his fingers on the table, looking around the room.
When I can’t stand the silence, I say, “I’m shocked that you don’t seem surprised.”
“By what?”
“You seem like the kind of guy that typically goes on dates with women who would order a side salad, eat one bite, and say they’re full. Not someone who orders a rich pasta dish.”
He shrugs. “Give me some credit. I know you well enough to know you’d never order a salad. I’ve seen your grocery recommendations, remember?” Tyler runs a hand through his hair, making me remember how it felt to run my hands through it—how soft and thick it was. “Besides, I’d rather date someone who eats balanced meals. You can’t just eat bunny food.”
I lean back in the chair, not at all worried about my posture and angles when I don’t give a lick what Tyler thinks of me. “Have you seen those candy salads on social media? That’s my kind of balanced diet. The perfect mix of sugar and sour deliciousness.”
He winces. “Thank goodness I don’t have to provide you with medical and dental insurance. I can’t imagine the sheer amount of cavities you must have.”
