Page 13 of The Beat of My Heart
This makes me stop completely. “Has that happened to you before?” Something about the way she said it makes me think it has, and I’m biting my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Ugh, you don’t even want to know how many times. So, why are you holding my hand then? And why do you keep calling me Angel? Oh my God, are you meeting an escort here? It's not me… I mean, I’m not a hooker,” she rambles, shaking free from my grasp.
I’ve been very patient, but I can’t let her leave thinking I’m looking for a hooker. Placing both hands on my hips, I lower my face to just inches from hers. “I am not, nor have I ever ordered a hooker. You said you needed a drink,” turning her to face my table, I say, “that is my table right there. Let’s get you a drink.”
Angel nods but says nothing at first.
“Hmm, I do need a drink. This has been a clusterfuck of a day, but I don’t remember telling you I needed a drink. Maybe you’re the crazy one?” she says as I see the wheels begin to turn.
I know she is about to get on another roll, so I place my hand on the small of her back and gently guide her towards the table, but she stops abruptly.
“How do you do that?” she asks.
I stop to stare at her because I’m not sure if she is talking to herself or me, but after a minute of silence, I realize she is allowing me to speak. The thought puts a genuine smile on my face.
“Do what, Angel?” I ask softly.
“Calm my thoughts,” she replies, looking confused. “Only my best friend has ever done that.” She seems upset by the knowledge.
“What do you mean, how am I calming your thoughts?” I ask, really wanting to know.
“Ah, nothing. Never mind. Let’s get a drink, shall we? I really need to get to bed before I make another spectacle. I hate ordering drinks at places like this, though, they always have stupid names. Why can’t they just say what is in the drink instead of a copper-headed turtle or whatever the hell it is that they call them?”
Holy shit, this girl's mind really does work a million miles a minute. With no filter, it is fascinating to watch.Taking her hand in mine again, she slows down.
“I really only drink vodka sodas or Mules these days. Sometimes wine, but usually only red and only in the winter,” she tells me.
It only takes a few steps to reach the table, and I hate letting go of her hand, but I realize it is highly inappropriate since I don’t even know her name. Not to mention physically impossible to slide into the rounded booth holding hands.
Settling into the high-backed booth, she starts again. “You know, you should probably just cut your losses. Most people can’t handle me for lengthy periods of time. Well, except my best friend, but in all honesty, she has a way of getting me to shut up. Something about her presence. She just places a hand on my arm, and suddenly, I can control the chaos going on up here,” she tells me, pointing to her head.
I stare at her, raising my hand at the same time to signal the waiter who scurries to my side. One benefit of having money, I guess. “A vodka soda, please. Tito’s, if you have it.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else? Appetizer, perhaps?” he asks, working the upsell like a pro.
“Not right now. Thank you,” I tell him, but continue to stare at my Angel, and he takes the hint, backing away.
Placing my arm along the back of the velvet-covered booth, I lean into the cushions, never taking my eyes off of her. I know it’s coming; I want to see how long she can go without combusting. Within thirty seconds, her lip is back in her fingers, and she is mumbling intelligibly. Leaning into her personal space, I take her hand away from her gorgeous lips.
“Don’t bottle up the chaos, Angel. I want to hear it,” I tell her.
“What are you, a sadist?” her response flies from her painted pink lips, causing a bark of laughter to erupt from deep within me.
“No, Angel. No sadist here, I just don’t want to miss a second of what’s going on in that sexy little head of yours,” I tell her with a wink.
When is the last time I flirted like this? There is a reason, Trevor. You’re dangerous, don’t get caught up in attraction. This is not the life you get to lead.
My conscience is loud tonight.
Letting go of her hand, I lean back into my own space and she immediately starts again.
“Why do you keep calling me Angel? No, wait, you shouldn’t answer that. The one-night stand rules say, no telling your actual name. So, you call me Angel, and I’ll call you…” she pauses, thinking, then claps her hands together, bouncing in her seat like the child she said she wasn’t. “Got it, I’ll call you Charlie.” She sits back in her chair with a smile that could melt glaciers.
“Charlie,” I say, then it hits me, “Charlie’s Angels.”
“You got it!” she beams.
“I do,” leaning over the table, I say, “My Angel.” I love watching the blush that creeps over her fair face.
