Connected (Connections, #1)(23)

Ben is the only guy I’ve ever held hands with. So in trying to figure out the whole art or science question, I attempt to picture other couples I know. I try to remember how their hands intertwine; however I can’t delve into that level of detail in my memory. I only have my hand holding with Ben as a gauge to help with my decision.

Ben and I usually held hands when we were in public. I don’t really know if this was a gesture of closeness or a way for Ben to let others know he was my boyfriend. Either way, when we held hands, we were palm in palm. Our hold was loose enough that if we needed to let go to allow someone by or to stop and look at something the hold was easily dropped. I’d say our handholding was more of a science.

So why does the way that River holds my hand seem so different? His hold is tight, our fingers are laced, and he’s occasionally rubbing circles on the top of my hand with his thumb. These small gestures definitely make handholding seem more like an art. So my conclusion would be that handholding is unique to the two who are doing it.

Wholly absorbed in my thoughts as we walk through the parking garage, I barely notice it’s just as empty as the building. With his guitar slung over his shoulder, he runs his other hand through his hair. He takes the lead as he heads toward what I assume is his car. It’s a vintage Black Porsche. He turns as we walk and I see him crack a genuine smile. He has the cutest dimples. It’s the first full-blown smile I’ve seen from him, and it is adorable.

Arriving at his car, he gently lets go of my hand as he reaches in his front pocket for his keys. He unlocks my door and opens it for me to get in. He clutches my hand to assist me into the very low seat. Once I’m seated, he lifts my hand and kisses it. Instantly, I feel a sense of déjà vu, as if I’m back in the bar that first night I met him so long ago.

He closes my door and walks around to put my things in the trunk. He opens his door and tosses his guitar in the small area behind us before he gets in. Grinning crookedly, he raises an eyebrow and splays both hands out. “So do you like it?”

I bite my lip and raise my eyes as if thinking. “Isn’t this James Dean’s car?” I ask.

He shakes his head and laughs. “Well this one isn’t his actual ride, obviously, but it’s modeled after his 1955 Little Bastard.”

I giggle at hearing a car referred to by such a nickname, I remember my dad and his love for James Dean. My dad won me over with his constant movie watching and references. We were both avid James Dean fans so much so that we must have watched Rebel Without A Cause over a hundred times. I think I knew all the lines by heart. I probably still do.

He looks over at me curiously and says, “Can I ask what you’re thinking about?”

Sighing at the memory, I lock the thoughts of my dad away. “Dream as if you will live forever, live as if you will die today.”

He places both hands on the steering wheel and glances over at me. The intensity of his powerful green eyes captures my full attention. “I love that movie, and that's definitely one of my favorite lines.”

I put my seat belt on before twisting sideways to face him. “James Dean was my dad’s favorite actor, and he always loved his car. So how fitting that I get to ride in a Spyder in my lifetime.”

“Hmmm…” he responds as he puts on his seatbelt.

Giving him a thumbs up, I say, “Hey, I really do like your car. It’s actually pretty cool.”

His huge grin returns and his dimples blare in high definition. Then, just as I remember him doing in a gallant attempt to avoid any awkwardness in conversation, he changes the subject.

He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, heading down the street toward the Las Vegas Strip. “Where to?”

I tell him where I’m staying, and after what feels like only a few minutes, we pull up to the Hard Rock Hotel. He puts the car in park and glances over at me. “Stay there. I’ll get your door.”

Walking around to my side of the car, he points and nods to the valet indicating he himself will get my door. After opening it, he braces his hands on each side of the doorframe and leans in. He surrounds me with his intoxicating scent and overwhelming sexiness before he reaches for my hand.

I shake my head and roll my eyes at his over the top chivalrous gesture but thoroughly enjoy the whole dynamic of it. Stepping out of the very low car, I clutch his hand and laugh a little. “Thank you, kind sir.”

He guides me forward to close my door. Then, half-grinning he looks away, almost shyly. “You’re welcome.”

He’s so adorable.

Standing very close, he gingerly pushes me back against the car, again bracing his hands on each side of me. He’s close, but still not close enough. His eyes shift back to mine; they are piercing me with their intensity, sending shivers down my spine. As he leans in toward me, he whispers in my ear. “Sir. I think I like the sound of that.”

He shrugs his shoulders and stares at me with his mesmerizing green eyes. He chuckles and says, “What, a guy can’t be a gentleman?”

I smile, actually impressed, and laugh a little myself. “I never said that.”

He hands his car keys and some cash to the valet. “Just the bags in the trunk go to this beautiful girl’s room. We won’t be long.”

Hand in hand again, he leads me to the front desk. He stands close to me and I feel his hand occasionally, maybe accidentally, brush against my outer thigh. Giving my name to the cute female clerk, he checks me in. She sends him a flirty smile and asks if a credit card should be left on file for incidentals. He smirks and hands over his card. When I protest he just shrugs and winks at me. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t think you will be charging anything.”