Page 25 of The Weight Of Falling
We head toward his car, and I’m immediately intrigued to see he drives a rugged-looking, weather-worn Jeep Wrangler with streaks of dried mud along the tires. It seems an odd choice for a food photographer. Curiosity flickers inside me. There are so many facets to this man, and I want to know them all. It startles me, this quiet pull to understand him.
“I pictured you in a sports car,” I blurt out, and instantly wish I could take back the comment.
His mouth hooks in a small smile. “Are you stereotyping me, Kenzie Ellis?”
“It appears I am,” I say with a grimace. “My mouth seems to have taken on a mind of its own.”
At my words, his eyes drop once again to my mouth. Something flares in his face just then. Something heated. But he quickly blanks his expression, and I’m left wondering if it was all in my imagination.
“I like sports cars,” he says easily, “but I also like getting away. The more remote, the better. And the Jeep makes that easier.”
“Do you camp when you go away?” I ask as he opens the passenger door for me.
“Sometimes.”
As I ease into the seat, smoothing my top, I get the feeling he’s not telling me everything, but I let it go.
Just before he closes the door, Joel leans in just enough to murmur, “By the way, you look beautiful.”
9
We walk down Main Street toward Kelly’s Bar, and I’m quietly thrilled by Joel’s small, protective gestures. The way he casually positions himself so he walks on the side nearest to the road. When we pass a rowdy group of guys gathered on the sidewalk, he puts his body between me and them, shifting so that he stays close to me.
The bar is busy but not overly packed. As we weave our way through the Saturday night crowd, I spot a few people I know. I give them a small nod of acknowledgment while ignoring the widening of their eyes when they realize who I’m with. Almost every table is taken, but Joel manages to secure us a high-top in a quieter section.
I keep sneaking glances at his profile. The strong jaw and angular lines of his face compete with the soft, sensual curve of his mouth. The man is gorgeous. There really is no other word to describe him. And as my mom likes to remind me, the beautiful ones tend to carry their own kind of trouble.
When the server stops at our table, I order a glass of wine and Joel orders a nonalcoholic beer.
“You don’t drink?” I ask once she leaves.
“No.”
That’s it. No elaboration or explanation. I envy the kind of confidence it takes to let a simple answer stand on its own. I’d be tripping over myself with explanations, justifying my choice even when no one’s asking me to.
“You know what,” I say quickly, “I think I’ll change my order.”
Joel frowns. “Why?”
“I’m in the mood for a mocktail.”
I make a move to stand, but Joel stops me with a light touch on my arm. “What are you doing?”
I drop my eyes. “If you’re not drinking, then it doesn’t feel right that I do.”
“Don’t change your order because of me,” he tells me in a low voice.
“It’s okay. I love mocktails.”
“Yet you ordered wine.”
I worry my bottom lip between my teeth. “I’m making it more complicated than it needs to be, aren’t I?”
“You don’t have to change what you want for someone else.”
“I get that, but I don’t want to be insensitive.”
“I promise you I’m not going to fall apart just because you’ve ordered a glass of wine.”
