Crazy Girl(13)

“Thanks,” I told him as I raised my glass in toast.

Twenty minutes turned into thirty, I got drunker and began reciting in my head the verbal thrashing I planned to give Wren whenever he finally did arrive, if he arrived, when…

“Nice place you picked here.”

My head snapped up and…there he was as I lived and breathed. Wren. His expression looked as grisly as I felt; apparently, I wasn’t the only one fearing this night was a huge waste of time. At least we had that in common. I had to chuckle a little with that thought. What in the hell were we doing?

“What’s so funny?” He snorted as he pulled out the stool next to me and sat down, keeping his body facing me. I was still chuckling as I took a moment to inspect him. He was wearing glasses, Clark Kent style, and his dark hair was stylishly messy atop his head. It had that look of no effort put into it, though I knew it did. His beard was fuller than it had been in his photos on the app, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. Of course he had to be even more handsome than I’d expected.

“Nothing,” I muttered, shaking my head, peeling my eyes away from him. Of course he didn’t like the place I picked. Why would he? That might have made the whole meeting-for-the-first-time somewhat easier. Rus’s wasn’t the finest establishment around, but the staff had always been friendly and it was close to my house so I liked it. The barstools were slightly worn and the floor was littered in broken peanut shells, but I liked low-key. Wren apparently did not. But I wasn’t going to push it with him. “If you don’t like this place we can go somewhere else.”

“No,” he sighed dramatically. “That’s okay. If we stay here and it’s awful, I can just blame it on you.” He was staring at the bar when I moved my eyes to him. His mouth was half-quirked as he inspected the liquor bottles that lined the back of the bar trying to decide on his drink order. He was being facetious. Pressing my lips together, I fought a grin. I didn’t want to laugh at him—laughter releases tension and lowers anxiety. It’s a highly sophisticated social signaling system that helps people bond. I wasn’t sure I wanted to bond with Wren…I mean, I had just been mentally practicing the witty and cutthroat diatribe I was going to serve him when he arrived. Now I was laughing at him?

When the handsome bartender jutted his chin to Wren, Wren said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Turning his attention back to me, he tilted his head, his eyes seemingly scanning my face, reading me. I stared back at him, my whiskey infused buzz stiffening my backbone, refusing to look away. Was he assessing my beauty? Did he think I was beautiful? Was I enough? I told myself I wouldn’t care if he thought so or not, but deep down in that dark place where shallowness pools, I did. I was comfortable with my looks. I’d dare even call myself pretty. Not gorgeous, but pretty. However, I wagered my definition of “pretty” differed greatly from his.

I waited, focusing my attention on controlling my breathing so as not to look jarred by his intense gaze. Yet I questioned everything. Was he going to say something? Anything?

Nope.

Not a word.

Then…he reached one large hand toward me.

I reared back slightly, surprised, causing him to hesitate for only the smallest fraction of a second before he continued. Gripping my pink scarf, he gently pulled at it, the fabric brushing softly against my skin as he unraveled it from my neck. It didn’t, for even the slightest moment, cross my mind to stop him, or ask him why he was doing this. I feared speaking, or even moving, would spook him; stop the moment, and I was enthralled with the idea of what would happen next. Once he’d removed it from my neck, he held it in both hands before raising it to his face and inhaling, his eyes closing briefly.

“You smell really fucking good,” he murmured as he lowered it.

Blankly, I stared at him, slowly releasing a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My body strummed like a live wire, reacting to a man who hadn’t even touched me. But hadn’t he? Physically, no, not in any way, even when he’d taken the scarf his hand hadn’t even brushed against me, yet I felt like, somehow, he’d caressed me.

When he wrapped my scarf around his neck and held it to his face again, smelling it, I finally managed to rasp, “Thank you.”

“I think pink is my color,” he mused. I curved my mouth into a slight smile. What a difference a few minutes made.

Fumbling for a moment, unsure of how to behave after that seemingly harmless yet intense moment, I shimmied, scooting up in my seat.

“So…” I let out another long breath. I needed to move us forward…away from whatever just happened. I didn’t care that he still had my scarf around his neck. “You work for the government.” He’d mentioned this in our chats, but hadn’t gone into any detail. It seemed like the perfect place to start a conversation.

“I do.”

I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t.

So I pressed on. “What exactly do you do?”

He shrugged. “I’m a dolphin trainer.”

I rolled my eyes.

“What?” he asked, exasperated. “I am.”

“You could just say you don’t want to talk about it,” I grumbled before slurping the remainder of my drink, not caring how obnoxious it sounded. We were back to square one. Damn, he was frustrating.