14. My Rebel Side #3
“I’d never.” And maybe Rebel Me isn’t ready to cede ground to Responsible Me quite yet. I lock eyes with her for a few seconds, breaking the contact to take a quick tour of her pretty face and stunning body. “I’ll give them to you, sweetheart…under one condition.”
She eyes me so damn warily. “What’s your condition?”
I lean closer, catching a hint of that cinnamon scent. Her lotion? Her body spray? Who even knows? But it scrambles my brain a little more. Knocks my sense of resistance looser. “You admit you’re damn curious about whether I had a hot date or not, and I’ll let you pick.”
She wrenches back, her jaw agape. “How big is your ego?”
I glance down at my lap. “Comparable.”
She rolls her eyes, then meets mine. “You can date whoever you want. I don’t care.”
I hum doubtfully. “You sure about that?”
“Like I said, you’re unbelievable.”
I laugh, then let it fade away, clearing my throat so I can tell her the truth. I want her to know, even if I’m not ready to face why I want that. “I’m not seeing anyone,” I say with no agenda, no games this time. “I’m not dating. But I do think you should pick the dessert. You’ve earned it.”
“For putting up with you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s saint work, really,” she says, then calls Esmeralda over. “We’ll take the mango sorbet with raspberry coulis.” Chloe turns to me. “Mango is the best fruit ever invented, and you can fight me on that.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “No fight.”
She flips her attention back to the woman behind the bar. “And I’d like a couple slices of your rosemary focaccia to go, along with a bottle of your best whiskey. Also, can you put a bow on the whiskey?”
“Anything for you, hon,” Esmeralda says, then gets to work.
“A bow?”
“Yes. My dad and his boyfriend like whiskey, so I thought it’d be nice to give them a bottle.”
Damn. She’s enjoying my tab a lot. Her boldness isn’t helping my cause to resist her. Then again, I’m not helping myself in that regard either. “And the focaccia?”
“It’s great for toast,” she says sweetly. “And I have an early morning. I need to meet my mom to go over her ideas for piano music for her fundraiser. So thanks for the breakfast.”
There’s a lot there I want to address, but I can also sense now’s maybe not the time.
“No problem,” I say, then nod at the bartender. “And some focaccia for me too.”
“Will do,” Esmeralda says.
When she brings the mango sorbet, I take my time, not wanting the night with Chloe to end, even though I know it has to.
It’s the same way I felt at the hotel in San Francisco.
This is getting to be an annoyance. Especially when a pang of loneliness digs into my heart when Chloe says, “I should get home to Captain.”
A pang of missing, too, for something I don’t have, as I say, “Bet he wants to see you.”
“He always does.” She pushes back on her stool, then stops, tilts her head. “Do you have a dog?”
I shake my head, disappointment coloring my tone as I explain, “Katya was allergic.”
Her lips part in surprise. “And that wasn’t a giant red flag of incompatibility?”
“In retrospect, it should have been,” I admit.
“Must love dogs is a, well, a must,” she says, but then studies me again. “But wait, that doesn’t explain why you don’t have one. You split a while ago.”
Fair question. “We did. I could have adopted. But I knew I’d be moving and settling into a new place. And I was sort of in…well, I was in a bad mood a lot. I guess I didn’t want to bring…that energy to a dog.”
She gives me the kindest, sweetest look. “That’s thoughtful. But I think the dog would be okay with your mood. Maybe even help it.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“When you’re ready, I can connect you with some great rescues. So you can find your favorite breed.”
Something tugs at my chest that she remembers. But I try not to read too much into the way I feel with her—the sheer weight of the physical desire, but also the sense that I could tell her anything. I’ve been fooled by my feelings before, so it’s best I ignore them.
At the end of the meal, I walk her to her car but stop short when she heads to the passenger side.
That’s odd. But maybe she’s setting down her focaccia and whiskey?
I follow her there, setting a hand on the door as she puts her to-go bag down on the floor.
She sits, though, in the passenger seat, and I’m thoroughly confused.
“Did you want me to drive?” I ask.
She laughs, but there’s a hint of embarrassment in her eyes when she says, “No. Roxie’s persnickety, so the driver’s side door doesn’t work.”
“Oh,” I say, then think better of asking why she doesn’t get it fixed. She has her reasons. And they’re probably money. “Well, drive Roxie safely.”
“I will, and thanks for dinner and dessert.” She scoots across the car, and once she hops into the driver’s seat, I say good night as I shut the door.
Gently.
She drives off, and I give myself another medal for resistance. I made it through the night without kissing her. That’s got to count for something. Especially since my rebel side is cursing me.
But my responsible side knows better.
Really, it does. I swear.