Page 52 of Phishing for Love
I roll my eyes. “Comfortable is not boring.”
“If you say so.”
“You can love something that’s comfortable. Like, uh, slippers. I love my slippers.”
Aaron sputters on his mouthful of beer. “I wouldn’t want to be described as a slipper in a relationship.”
“No, you’d be the corset.”
His lips curve into a grin. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that.”
My eyes stray to his powerful-looking shoulders. I stare at my beer, willing them back where they belong. My eyes might be bored, but at least they’re now well behaved.
“Anyway,” I say quietly, after a small silence, “boring is not the worst thing in the world.”
He leans back in his chair, taking a long sip of his beer, as though he’s waiting for me to look up at him. When I do, his stare is long and measured. “It’s not the best thing in the world, either.”
I feel myself go still. I’m not liking the direction this conversation is taking. I’m not liking the unsettling sensation of walls closing in on me.
“You know what’s boring, Statistics Man? Numbers.”
“Interesting deflection.”
“As interesting as your evasive tactics.”
“I like numbers.”
“Why?”
“Numbers are safe. They don’t lie.” Then he mutters something that sounds like, “And they don’t die,” but I think I must have heard him wrong.
I’m about to ask a follow-up question, but Aaron switches topics smoothly. “I bet you own a dog.” He closes his eyes for a second, as though picturing it. “A chocolate Labrador who slobbers incessantly.”
I can’t help my smile. “Guess again.”
“A golden retriever who adores everyone.”
“I have a cat. An independent, grumpy tabby.”
He’s silent.
“I surprised you!”
“You did.” He says it like it’s not a good thing.
I’m inordinately pleased with myself. Chuckling at my mini victory, I touch my necklace, twirl the half-moon-shaped pendant between my fingers.
When I see him studying the pendant, I say, “A gift from my sister.”
Love you to the moon and back, Kate had said when she’d given it to me.
“It’s pretty,” he acknowledges.
When he doesn’t say anything else, I fill in the pause in the conversation. “What about you? Any siblings?”
His face shuts down and he holds his body utterly still, as though he’s absorbing a blow. I know immediately I’ve said the wrong thing.
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I feel compelled to apologize. It’s an innocent question, but this is not the first time I’ve caught the hint of something hurting inside him, a bleakness thatsteals over his face sometimes, like he’s submerged in unhappy memories.
