Leaving Amarillo(11)

“That’s my number . . .”

“Marissa,” she offers helpfully.

“Marissa,” he says slowly, giving her his trademark panty-dropping grin and gifting her a look at his stupid f*cking dimple. “You just shoot me a text—or call so I can hear that pretty voice—when y’all get to the festival and I’ll make sure you get a front-row spot when we go on.”

I snort because we don’t have that kind of control over the crowd. We barely even made it here. But then I feel sick because I’m sure he’s giving her his number so he can give her a private show. Bile rises in my throat as they make let’s-get-naked eyes at each other. The fist squeezing the heck out of my heart finally loosens its grip just as he releases her wrist so that she can get our drinks.

Gavin turns back to me like I haven’t been sitting here for three and a half minutes plotting his gruesome death with flatware.

“So whatcha gettin’?”

My chest heaves with the effort it takes to sit still and breathe air instead of lunging across the table. I lower my menu and give setting him on fire with my glare a try.

“Bluebird? I asked what you were—” His words die in his throat when he meets my narrowed eyes. “Um, you okay?”

Focus, Dixie Leigh.

“You never touch me,” I say evenly, surprised that I don’t sound nearly as crazed as I feel.

“What?” He glances down at his menu as if it will contain an explanation of some sort.

“You never touch me. We’ve known each other for ten years and you don’t casually sling your arm across my shoulders, or link arms with me, or hold my hand when we’re walking together. You don’t hug me or put your hand on the small of my back.”

Gavin clears his throat and glances to the side like a cornered animal, probably looking for the nearest escape route. “Okay. So I don’t touch you. So what? Can we order now?”

Reaching across the table I lower the menu he’s holding up like a shield. “So you’ve known that waitress for five seconds and you caressed her arm like it was your dick. And yet we’ve known each other for forever and you never touch me.”

I watch as his eyes widen and the knot in his throat rises and falls. “Please tell me you’re joking. Do you seriously want to do this right now?”

“Just tell me why. Tell me why you have no problem putting your hands on a complete stranger and you avoid touching me as if I’m diseased, which I’m not, for the record.”

“You know good and damn well I don’t think you’re diseased.” His expression hardens and I can’t read it. It almost looks as if he thinks I’m playing dumb, like I already know the answer.

I scoff at him. “Don’t blame it on Dallas. I hardly think he’d lose his mind just because you put your arm around me or something.”

His hooded gaze gets even darker and I’m confused. The waitress returns with our drinks but Gavin doesn’t look away from me to acknowledge her.

“Are y’all ready to—”

“We need a minute,” Gavin practically growls at her.

Once she’s gone, I take a sip of my water while maintaining eye contact with him. Whatever is happening between us, it’s important. And I don’t want to miss a single second of it.

“You act like I’m trying to lure you into bed. I’m not. I just want to know why you don’t ever—”

“Listen to me, and listen close. You and me? We are not having this conversation. Not here, not now, and not ever. Is that clear?” His words, his tone, his penetrating glare—all of it—jump-starts my heart until it’s a battering ram inside my chest.

I fold my arms over my chest. “Oh yeah? Well I say we are.”

“Well you can have it with your f*cking self then. I’ll get my food to go.” He shoves back from the table, scraping his chair roughly against the tile floor as he stands.

I flinch because he doesn’t talk to me like this. Or at least he never has before. I both love it and hate it. It’s hot and terrifying all at once.

“Gav, wait. Please. I’m sorry.” I reach out and wrap my fingers around his wrist, which he jerks from my grasp as if I’ve electrocuted him. I fold my hands in my lap and stare up at him with pleading eyes.

He glares at me for what feels like ten lifetimes before he lowers himself back into his seat and trains his attention back on his menu. For the next few minutes I try to make eye contact, to bring him back to that place we were in moments ago when we were connected. But he’s dead set on ignoring me.

“I’m torn between the pesto penne and Olivia’s Alfredo,” I say, to let him know he’s off the hook. For now.

He cuts his eyes back to me, cautiously, as if testing to see if I’ve really let it go. I haven’t, but I’m going to have to take it easier on him if I want actual answers.

“Order the pesto and I’ll get the Alfredo. We’ll split halfway,” he relents.

I let the hint of a smile play on my lips and nod. When we were kids, I could never decide between chocolate and strawberry ice cream. Gavin always got chocolate and then traded me for my pink cone when I was ready. Even though Dallas gave him hell about it.

“Wipe that smirk off your face. I was going to get the Alfredo anyways.”