Dear Life(82)

There, that wasn’t so hard, even though I can taste blood in my mouth from gnawing on my cheek.

“You don’t have to explain, Carter.”

“I don’t want you to be upset.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “You don’t owe me anything. It’s not like we’re together.”

Not together?

Now why the fuck does that comment make me want to start punching the stone of the sanctuary we sit on?

I don’t get a chance to answer her when she lets out a long breath. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“What do you mean?” I don’t like how cryptic she’s being.

“Nothing.” Standing, she brushes off her bottom and takes off toward the door, but I don’t let her get too far before yanking on her shoulder and spinning her around to face me.

“Daisy, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t swear at me.” She points her finger, trying to lecture me.

Rolling my eyes, I answer, “I said hell. It’s not like I told you to fuck off.” She tries to spin away again but I stop her, this time pinning her against the wall. “Tell me what’s going on?”

Not happy, she reluctantly answers me. “I mustered up a lot of confidence to ask you a question today but you’re in such a bad mood, that I don’t even want to ask you now. I just want to forget the whole thing.”

A question? Now I’m really intrigued.

Shifting in place, a lightness to my voice and in ease in my features, I ask, “You want to ask me a question, Snowflake? Well, don’t hold out on me now. What is it?”

“No, forget it. It was stupid.”

“You’ll never know if it’s stupid until you ask me.”

“Ugh, you’re not supposed to say that. You’re supposed to say nothing you could ask me is stupid.”

“Come on.” I quirk my lips to the side. “I’m not going to lie. What if you asked me something like what are those jiggly milk sacs on your chest? That would be a stupid question because you and me both know they are your fantastic tits.” I move a little closer, capturing her with my strong, broad body.

“I don’t like the term milk sacs.”

Chuckling, I say, “Fair enough. Now tell me, what is your question?”

She bites her lower lip, trying to decide if she’s going to ask me. Little does she know, she’s not going back inside until she asks. She won’t be able to get away that easily.

“Come on, Snowflake. The longer you wait, the more of the meeting we’ll miss.”

“Fine.” She takes a deep breath and says, “My sister is getting married in a few weeks. She said I could invite a guest so I was wondering if you wanted to go with me. You know, to the wedding.” She swallows hard and adds, “As my date.”

Weddings. I would love to say I’m Vince Vaughn from Wedding Crashers when it comes to weddings, but I’m the exact opposite. I can’t stand them. They are an extreme waste of money that can be put toward buying a house, rather than a party most people won’t remember because they’ll be so damn twisted from the open bar.

My first instinct is to say no thanks, but when I meet Daisy’s eyes, when she gives me the most pathetic plea using just those blue irises, I feel myself cracking once again. She can get me to do anything, I’m convinced of it.

“A wedding?” I ask, delaying the inevitable.

“Yeah. It might be fun.” She fidgets in place. “There will be wedding cake. If anything, you can go to eat the cake.”

“I can eat cake anytime. Give me a better reason.” I smirk, lacing our fingers together.

From the tilt of my lips, her eyes light up and she smiles brightly at me. Accepting the challenge, she answers, “Um, open bar?”

“Good answer, but getting drunk with a bunch of sweaty, pelvic-thrusting strangers is not my favorite thing to do on a Saturday night.”

Looking to the side, she searches for another answer. “You get to slow dance with me.”

Taking her hands, I place them around my waist and pull her in close. Moving her side to side, I say, “I’m slow dancing with you right now. Try again.”

Moving back and forth, her eyes really studying me, intent on finding a reason, she answers, “I’ve got it.”

“You don’t have it,” I tease.

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got it. If you come to the wedding you get to see me in one of the prettiest dresses ever.”

“Prettiest dresses ever?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “Is this the same dress you never sent me a picture of? The one you keep mentioning?”

“The one and only,” she replies with a knowing smile.

“How pretty are we talking?”

She leans in closer, her lips pressing against my chin. “Very pretty.”

“I don’t know . . .” I drag out.

“Stop making this difficult for me,” she says, laughing nervously. “Talk about facing my fears. It’s not easy asking a guy like you out on a date. Let alone a guy in general.”

“A guy like me?”

“Yeah, a guy like you.”

“Shall I ask you to elaborate?”

“Best that you don’t.” I love how she can still tease me when feeling insecure. Just goes to show how strong she really is.