Ten Below Zero(6)

Carly’s face fell. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up after breakfast.”

“I have breakfast plans.” I wasn’t sure why I told her, but it caught her attention. She turned to me with a knowing grin.

“A date?” she asked, seemingly hopeful.

I nearly shuddered. “No. Someone did me a favor and I guess I owe him pancakes now.”

Carly’s grin didn’t fade until I watched her run her eyes down. The smile slid off her face in an instant. “Are you wearing that?” she asked, gesturing with her spatula.

I looked down at myself. I was wearing stretched out yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt, my usual attire. I shrugged when my eyes met hers again. “Yeah.”

Her eyes practically doubled in size. “No,” she emphasized, dropping the spatula on the counter and turning the stove off a second later. “You are not wearing that. And your hair?” she looked at the mess on my head and her face was pained. “Come here,” she insisted, dragging me down the hallway.

Thirty minutes later, I was walking down the sidewalk towards the pancake restaurant. Carly had forced me into a summery, coral and navy colored dress and navy heels. She’d made my bun look less like a nest and had even swiped some makeup on my face, hiding my dark circles. I felt out of place, which fit the situation, as I wasn’t sure what to expect.

My hands started tingling when I made out the sign on the side of the building, trying not to focus too hard on the people milling about on the sidewalk, the few that stopped to give me a second glance.

I was finally feeling more than annoyance: I was feeling longing. For my stretched out yoga pants.

I’d told myself on the walk to the restaurant that something was off the night before, the night we met. There were millions of other men in California. What was so special about him? It was the liquor or the spontaneity that messed with my brain. I didn’t feel things. Lust didn’t grip me like a vise, twisting me inside out with desire. That was irrational. That was not me.

My eyes tracked the man in black on the sidewalk. I couldn’t explain how I knew it was him, but I did. And then he turned.

My eyes betrayed me the moment they met his. They refused to break contact and a moment later, my equally traitorous heart stuttered in my chest. He was walking across my path, head turned in my direction while I stood, a statue on the sidewalk. I vaguely registered the jostling by other pedestrians, rushing to their destinations.

He stopped his path and angled his body to face mine, his eyes pinning me in place. The entire world kept moving around me but I was seconds away from my heels forming roots into the concrete.

He walked towards me, confident in his stride. My heart stirred in my chest and I knew, without hesitation, that this man would destroy me. The thought made me breathless. With fear and expectation. More prevalent than those, however, was desire. What was happening to me?

When he reached me, my breath came back loudly, as if I’d been startled. He cocked his head to the side, looking me up and down. “Going somewhere?” he whispered.

The foot traffic jostled us a bit, so he reached a hand out to steady me, his hand touching the bare skin of my arm. The touch sent a little shock and I glanced down, disorientated. I noticed his shoes then. My mind blanked.

“They say the first thing you notice about someone is their shoes, but that can’t be true because I just barely noticed yours.” The thought flew from my mouth without provocation. I looked up at him, a little embarrassed. A smile curled one side of his lips and his eyes crinkled. He still looked tired.

And why did that last thought send me into a land of inappropriate visions?

“I didn’t notice yours either,” he admitted. He stepped back and looked down. “Hmm,” he murmured.

I blinked rapidly. Were we really talking about our shoes? “What?”

“You did exactly what you said you’d do.”

It took a moment for it to click. “I couldn’t find my running shoes,” I answered.

“Hopefully you won’t need them this time,” he said, pulling gently on my arm to lead me to the restaurant.

“Where’s my card?” I blurted out.

Everett looked at me as if I’d wounded him. “Breakfast first,” he insisted, his head angled to me, his hair in his eyes.

I’m not sure what it was about my face that made him laugh at that moment, but he did, and the sound reached into my belly and teased the desire that lay there in wait, like a snake waiting to strike. How was it possible that he looked the same in the daylight, with the morning sun lighting up his features, drawing more attention to the lines around his eyes and mouth? And why couldn’t I stop looking?

“I’m not hungry,” I said as he led us to a booth in the back. I kept my eyes averted from the other patrons as some of them looked at us. What did they see when they looked at me? Were they admiring the dress or fixated on my scars? I hadn’t bothered hiding them this morning.

And on that thought, I looked to Everett as he gestured with his hand for me to have a seat in the booth. Why hadn’t he mentioned anything, asked about my scars?

He took the seat across from me and asked the waitress for a coffee before looking at me.

“Water,” I answered.

After the waitress walked away, Everett broke eye contact to open up his laminated menu, perusing the available options. He didn’t say anything as his eyes glided across the menu. He made little hums here and there, and nodded as if in deep thought about waffles and sausage links.