Shipped(39)

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean.”

The waiter comes back with our mojitos and I take several long gulps of the crisp, minty drink. “So why aren’t you on social media? Are you one of those privacy nuts—‘the government is out to get us’?”

“No. I used to be on social media, but I deleted all my accounts over a year ago.”

“Why?” Not that I’m super active on social media myself. Sure, I have Instagram and I send Snaps to my college friends every now and again, but generally I’m too busy to keep up with it. But it’s strange for someone our age to have no social media presence at all, especially someone who does it for a living.

Graeme lifts and lowers one muscular shoulder. “I don’t like splashing details about my life across the Internet. It’s not real, what people post. It’s a carefully cultivated highlight reel. Everyone is marketing their own personal brand whether they know it or not, and I’d rather keep my personal life to myself instead of trying to sell a fake version of it online. And opening up your life to others means people can comment on it,” he adds, so low I barely hear.

“Seems like a lonely way to live.”

“Not to me.” His tone holds a harsh edge.

Flopping back in my chair, I cross my arms over my chest. “Can we ever have a conversation without arguing?”

His lips quirk. “I like arguing with you.”

“You do?”

“It’s fun. I like a challenge, and you give as good as you get.”

“You have no idea.” Instead of sounding flippant, my voice comes out in a rumbly purr.

Graeme’s eyes grow hooded. “Maybe not yet.”

My nerves sing and my heartbeat stutters. Graeme holds me captive with his glinting, raw-edged gaze. The feeling knocks me off-balance and I take a shaky sip of water. The heavy clanking of the anchor rising reverberates through the dining room.

What would it be like to be with Graeme?

Would he be all Midwestern polite, sweet as apple pie, holding open doors and letting me walk through first, so to speak? Or would he be the domineering Graeme I know from work—setting the pace, dictating the flow, taking the lead? I squeeze my thighs together.

“I would give anything to read your mind right now,” he muses.

I take a deep breath and focus on reining in my runaway thoughts. Time to change the subject. “I’m sure you would. Tell me something about yourself,” I venture. “You said I don’t know you, and you’re right. Let’s get to know each other.”

This “meeting” has gone off the rails into territory I’m not entirely sure I’m ready to explore. But I don’t want it to stop.

Graeme inclines his chin and a damp lock of hair falls across his forehead. I fight the urge to reach across the table and push it back. “What do you want to know?” he asks, voice deep and satiny.

I cast around for a topic. “What do you do for fun in Michigan? Besides walk your dog through graveyards at night.”

His jaw tenses. “Oh, you know. Eat corn. Watch football. Tip cows.”

“Sounds a lot like what we do for fun in Idaho.” At least that’s what people think.

“You’re from Idaho?”

“The northern part, the panhandle. And no, I didn’t grow up on a potato farm.”

Graeme shrugs. “I grew up on a corn farm.”

“You did?”

His face splits into a grin, showing a line of white, even teeth. “No.”

I chuff a laugh. Warmth swirls in my stomach and spreads like tentacles through my limbs.

“I was born and raised in Ann Arbor. My mom was an assistant professor at the university, so most of my weekends were spent at lectures, the library, or the local park. I like to travel but haven’t done much of it recently. I play pickup hockey when I can.”

I can very well believe he plays hockey. He certainly has a hockey player’s muscular physique.

“What about your dad?”

“Out of the picture since I was a kid.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Being raised by a single mother must have been hard. But it would explain why he seems to have an intuitive connection with middle-aged women.

“It is what it is. So what about you?” Bracing an elbow on the table, he rests his chin on his fist.

The way he’s looking at me—like he’s in a museum and I’m a particularly captivating sculpture—has my insides twisting into a bow. I run my tongue along my teeth after I swallow my last bite of salad. I hope to God there’s nothing stuck in there.

“What about me?”

“What does Henley Rose do for fun?”

“Fun… fun?” Furrowing my eyebrows, I tap my chin and squint at the ceiling. “I think I’ve heard of that.”

With a chuckle, he waves his hand in a tight circle, urging me on.

My eyes flit around the dining room—it’s nearly empty now, and only a dozen guests remain, chatting over pushed-back plates and cups of coffee. “I played sports growing up too—mostly soccer—but not so much lately. Christina has been begging me to play on her adult rec team, but I haven’t been able to fit it in my schedule. Once upon a time, I used to like camping.”

“Camping? Really?”