The First Taste(9)

Amelia blinks and looks up at me. We take a step forward in line together. “Who?”

“The ex.”

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.” I put my hands in my pockets. “Would you rather talk about the weather?”

Her shoulders lower just a bit. “Reggie. He works downtown. Finance.”

“That still your type? Suits?”

“I don’t know if I have a type anymore. I’ve considered becoming a lesbian, but . . .”

I roll my lips together and smile. She’d look good curled around another woman. Or around me. And since I know where she’s headed with this, I’d love nothing more than for her to finish her sentence. “But?”

She looks me in the eye. “But I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I’d miss . . .”

I egg her on. “You’d miss . . .?”

“A man,” she says quickly. “The way it feels to be touched by a man.”

It takes great effort to hold her gaze and not let my eyes travel down. Her skirt is tight, and I’d like to peel it away and see what’s underneath. No doubt her ass is firm and round. My mind flashes to later, when her legs will be all mine—the insides of her thighs, the backs of her knees, the arches of her feet. I clear my throat. “Hot as it would be, I’m glad you aren’t a lesbian.”

“What about you?” she asks.

“I have nothing against lesbians,” I say, raising the corner of my mouth. “Personally, I’m a fan.”

A hint of a smile crosses her lips. “I mean, you’ve made it clear I’m not your type. Was your ex the ‘biker chick’ you referred to earlier?”

I glance down. It’s been nearly four years, so I can finally think about Shana without getting too worked up. Still, she’s far from my favorite topic. “Yeah.”

“That’s it?” Amelia asks. “Yeah? You’re the one who brought exes up.”

Her eyes sparkle. She knows exactly what she’s doing, and that I’d rather not talk about it. But there’s something appealing about the fact that Amelia knows nothing about me or Shana, unlike everyone else in my life. And if we’re only spending one night together, what’s the harm in making conversation? I blow out a sigh. “Even though she hurt me, I generally stick to that type of girl. Present company excluded.”

She tilts her head. “Why me then?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” I say with a wink. I like that I can tease her without worrying how she’ll react. To offend her, she’d have to care what I think, and she clearly doesn’t.

She half-smirks. “What’s her name?”

“Shana.”

“Is she the mother of the girl with you earlier?”

“You mean my daughter? Yeah.” I laugh. She’s clearly uncomfortable with me having a kid. We take a few steps forward, nearing the counter. “Shana walked half a mile to my garage because of an empty tank, so I drove her back to her car, filled her up, and the rest is history. We were dating a few weeks when she got pregnant. Around Bell’s third birthday, Shana left. The end.”

Amelia jerks her head toward me. “The end? That’s it?”

I look forward. I may have learned to accept how Shana left, but the pity in people’s eyes never gets any easier to swallow. “It was almost four years ago. We get on fine without her. Better, even.”

“I can understand why you don’t date. I wouldn’t either.” She looks up at me. Her eyes are slightly too big for her face, and she looks deceivingly innocent. “Will you ever marry again?”

“Doubt it. You?”

“Never.”

The abruptness of her answer shouldn’t surprise me, but I cock my head. “Just like that? What if you fall in love?”

“I won’t if I can help it.”

I open my mouth to tell her that’s a shame—even though she’s given me nothing but shit, there are undoubtedly men out there who’d happily do the bidding of a sharp-witted, gorgeous blonde. But that’d make me a hypocrite. I’d be a fool to fall in love after the way I was burned, and I sure as hell don’t plan on being a fool twice. “I think you and I are going to make great friends,” I say.

“If we’re going to eat pizza, have sex, and then get back to our own lives, then you might be my best friend in the world.”

I grin. “Does this mean you’ll have a slice?”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Next,” a man behind the counter calls. We step up.

Before I can open my mouth, Amelia orders. “I’ll have a salad, no cheese, dressing on the side.”

“All we got is a side salad,” the man says, punching the register. “Not exactly our specialty, though.”

“That’s fine. I’m not that hungry.” She thumps her magazines, folders, thermos and package on the counter to rifle through one of her bags.

“I’ve got this,” I tell her.

She ignores me, handing a five-dollar bill to the cashier.

I don’t mind playing the boyfriend for a night, because I know this isn’t real, but she seems to want to keep things separate. If there weren’t a long line behind us, I’d argue with her.