Our Finest Hour (The Time #1)(7)

My hands move to his shoulders. The scent coming off his neck is dizzying. He smells sweet but also spicy, clean but a bit like a forest. He paints a design on the small of my back with his fingertips, making me shiver despite the heat of the bodies around us.

The longer we dance, the harder it is to remember where we are, and suddenly I wonder if we look like that couple I watched when I arrived tonight.

I lean in even closer, cupping Isaac’s cheek, and whisper, “I’m ready to leave.”

Isaac’s fingers trail over the back of my neck, across my shoulder, and down to my hand. His face is next to my ear. I listen for his words, but none come. He presses a cheek to my hair, and I barely make out a soft groan.

Isaac pulls back, my hand still in his, and leads me through the crowded bar. Outside, a line of cabs wait. He walks up to the first one, holds open the door, and climbs in after me. He gives the driver directions, then asks me for my phone.

“Why?” I ask, taking it from my purse.

“I told Britt I would tell her where I’m taking you. And give her my address.” He takes my phone.

“Why not from your phone?” I ask as he opens my texts. Britt’s name is my most recent conversation.

“I didn’t bring my phone with me tonight. I didn’t want to be reached.” His voice is strained, and I’d bet a million dollars it has to do with why he was there.

He types out a message and hands it back to me. The phone slips from my sweaty palms twice before I get it back in my purse. I’m not sure how to say what I’m thinking, so I blurt out, “Do we need ground rules?” I feel like an idiot for not knowing how these things go.

Isaac looks confused. It relieves me. If he’d known just what I was asking, it would’ve unnerved me.

I groan and push my hair out of my eyes. “Are we exchanging last names? Because it just occurred to me we never made it to that minor detail.”

He shifts so his body faces me. “Do you want to?”

“No…” I say slowly, but I’m still thinking. Knowing his last name might make him more real. Maybe the less I know, the better. “No,” I repeat, my voice confident.

“OK, then.” He smiles and takes my hand. “Aubrey with no last name, do you like ice cream?”

I lift a finger and shake my head. “Oh no no no. I’m not getting all Fifty Shades of Grey with you. Even if you are my second-best friend.”

Isaac’s laughter fills the back seat. “I’m not talking about that. I meant the question literally.”

“Oh.” I giggle. “Sorry.”

He pushes a strand of hair out of my face, his fingers running the length of my ear as he tucks it away.

My breath slams up my throat, thick and hot. All he did was touch your ear. Calm down. A change of subject is needed. Now.

“You didn’t say what brought you into the bar tonight,” I say. “Is there a certain female that caused you to seek refuge in a bottle?”

Isaac looks down, lightly punching the empty space on the seat between us. “In a sense, yes.” He winces, like he’s remembering the hurt.

“Do you want to tell me the ugly truth?” My voice is soft.

He shakes his head. “It’s not my ugly truth to tell.”

He falls quiet, and so do I. Questions pop into my mind.

You’re job is to help people? How so?

Do you have a roommate?

How old are you?

I ask none of these questions, because I’m not supposed to know the answers. That’s the point of tonight.

His hand creeps across the seat and grabs mine, fingers intertwining. He has strong, long fingers. Big, thick, tan hands that look capable. Since when are hands this interesting? Somehow Isaac’s are.

“I’m leaving the country in a few days.” He says it so suddenly that I jump a tiny bit. “It’s a long trip. I can extend it and stay longer if I…” He trails off, surveying me. “Sorry. More than you need to be told. I just wanted you to know I’m leaving, before this goes any further.”

“I’m OK with that,” I say. It’s a good thing, actually. Cut-and-dry is what I need.

He nods, scraping his free hand across his chin. “I hope you don’t mind that my place is mostly packed up. All my stuff is going into storage.”

“I’m OK with that, too.”

The cab comes to a stop in front of a row of brightly lit storefronts. Isaac drops my hand and removes his wallet, swiping his credit card through the machine on the back of the drivers seat. He steps out and I open my door. I’m halfway out when Isaac rounds the back end of the cab. Making a face, he hustles to grab the open door.

“You should of let me get your door,” he chides.

“That’s what people do when they’re on dates.” I step onto the sidewalk. “We’re not on a date.”

“True. If we were on a date, I would’ve picked you up at your house, not at a bar.” He steps closer to me.

“Oh yeah?” My eyebrows raise. “What else would you have done differently?”

“Probably brought you flowers.”

His hand extends across the short distance between our chests. I take his pretend flowers. “I don’t understand why guys give girls flowers. They are literally dying plants wrapped in tissue paper.”