Chapter 2 #2
Samson doesn’t take his eyes off me, and eventually says, “All clear.”
He leans away from me, removing his hand from the back of my seat, and a sense of disappointment blooms with his retreat. I try to shake off the unsettling sensation, but then my nose twitches, catching a whiff of something outdoorsy and fresh about him that lingers between us.
“Let me get your drink,” I boldly offer. He did just play my hero.
“Don’t worry about it.” His smile is kind, but it doesn’t reach his eyes as it did earlier. The lack of a grin is almost as mysterious as the crooked one he gave me in the hallway.
Stop analyzing his smile. Or lack thereof, Taxi. I mentally double pat my cheeks, like the slap will force some sense into me.
“I insist,” I demand.
He tilts his head and tips a brow. “My mama would never forgive me.”
I can appreciate a gentleman, and I accept his brush off of my offer, but I’m also slightly irritated, which makes no sense.
He orders a beer for himself.
“So, a mama’s man,” I say, hoping to keep him talking. He has a nice voice. Rugged but soothing, soft almost, like smoothing out a crumpled piece of paper.
“Once upon a time,” he says before taking a drink of his beer and setting it on the counter. His attention returns to me, giving me those summer-sky eyes again.
“What about you? Mama’s girl or daddy’s?”
I chuckle, the sound instantly bitter. “Neither.” You can’t be a daddy’s girl when you don’t know the man, and as for my mama, well, she’d been absent since my formative years.
“You’re from outer space, aren’t you?” He leans forward like he doesn’t want everyone else to know my secret.
I laugh. “Exactly. Traveling from lands far, far away, as aliens do.”
The curve of his mouth curls higher, emphasizing the silver around those lips of his. Lips that look puffy and soft and ripe for kissing.
Nope. Stop it.
He chuckles as well, causing his eyes to flare. “Must be nice.” The words are dull, like he hasn’t been anywhere special.
“You from Tennessee?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Just visiting.”
I can appreciate a person keeping things tight to the chest, but his answer is so vague, I’m wondering if he’s from outer space.
It doesn’t matter either way. I don’t need his street address. I don’t even need his name.
“Well, Samson. Here’s to landing in Knoxville.” I lift my glass and tap the long neck of his beer bottle, then take a sip of my drink.
He raises his beer to salute me, pokes the corner of his mouth higher, and takes a short swig. “Greetings. What brought you to this illustrious mountain town?”
“Traveling artist.” I’m not a fan of small talk or background-seeking chatter, yet I don’t mind with him. “I’ve been commissioned to paint a mural.”
His brows rise with interest. “Tell me more.”
Truth? I’ve seen the glazed-over look of someone asking for details about my art only to not really care about my passion. But this guy looks truly curious, especially when he keeps his focus on my face.
“I’ve been hired by a local urban outreach organization to paint the side of a community center.”
“Side?” he questions.
“The outside. Like a brick wall.” I wave my hand up and down as if emphasizing the exterior of a building.
His eyes scan down my seated form. “Just you? Alone?”
“Meaning?” I arch a brow at him. Is he questioning my ability?
“I just mean, painting a single wall in my house seems like a daunting project. How do you envision something on such a large scale?”
I’m almost puzzled by the question when I know the answer.
I hesitate even to give him my explanation, but the longer he stares at me, waiting on something without those eyes turning to a shield of disinterest, my mouth finally finds the words, and I explain the details, almost painting a picture for him of the initial mock designs, scaling proportions, and software I use to help map everything.
“I like to hand-draw it first, then use technology as a tool,” I admit.
And the entire time I talk, he watches me, his eyes sharp, attentive, patient. He asks questions that make me realize he’s really listening, not just waiting for a pause to speak.
He leans in, forearm on the counter, knees still bracketed around mine, like he’s forming a cocoon around us and I’m the center of his attention.
His head inclines. His gaze doesn’t wander.
It’s intoxicating to the point I consider coming out of hibernation just for him.
Handsome, enigmatic, controlled, and yet entirely present.
The sensation is unnerving, but in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
“For this project, I’ll actually be teaching my techniques to kids at the university. Art really saved me when I was younger, and I’m thrilled to pass on what I know to others.”
His grin grows almost full wattage, like he hears my excitement and reciprocates it. I recall what he said about my book—a weapon of words. That smile of his at high blast might be just as lethal.
Eventually, I remember that conversations should be two-sided, and I ask what he does.
The corner of his mouth twitches, but it isn’t as easy as I’ve seen. “Nothing as exciting as painting murals to emphasize the spirit of a community.” He takes another sip of his beer, which he’s been ignoring during my artistic deluge.
I smile at what he’s excavated about my work, but still wish he’d share a bit more about himself.
“You gonna eat that cupcake or are you saving it?” he asks, changing the subject and nodding toward the dessert I almost forgot I ordered.
Digging a fork into the moist goodness, because I’d have frosting in my nose if I picked up the cupcake and bit into it, I hold the first bite out toward him.
“Ladies first,” he says, waving his hand toward me.
As I wrap my lips around the sweet sensation, humming with pleasure, I notice the way his throat rolls as he watches me. Chewing slowly, I lick my lips, and his gaze follows the path of my tongue until I dig my teeth into my lower lip. The heat in his eyes proves I’m having an effect on him.
There’s something about Samson that continues to give off warm tones of stable beige and denim blue in a comforting way.
His knee twitches, knocking into mine, and he clears his throat, sitting taller, making me realize how close we’ve been sitting. Glancing at the bar, he flips his phone, which I hadn’t noticed on the counter, and he taps the screen, reading the time.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath.
“Big date?” I tease, hating how the words come out with a pinch of envy. Earlier, he hinted at me having a husband, and I noticed he wasn’t wearing a wedding band. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a woman still waiting on him.
“My brother has a fight tonight, and I’d hoped to attend, but I missed it.”
“I’m so sorry.” I swallow back a splash of regret along with the relief that it isn’t another woman. “I’ve been so busy blabbing about myself—”
“I like hearing your voice.” His head swings upward, gaze landing on my lips, and I’m so startled by the admission that I stumble for a response.
“And it’s not like he knew I was coming, anyway,” he adds.
“Sounds like a story.” I wiggle my brows and slice into the cupcake again.
“Definitely not as good as alien lovers, I imagine.”
My book. I choke on embarrassment. I’m not ashamed of reading romance or ones as outrageous as alien lovers, but I still feel a little guilty about the fictional truth.
Alien dicks are big, and they know how to handle that girth.
With cupcake on my fork again, I hold out the next bite for him.
As his mouth opens, and his lips wrap around the tines, he holds still a second, keeping his eyes on me before sliding his closed lips down the fork.
Just as I’m about to pull it free from his mouth, his teeth briefly clamp on the metal tines.
His mustache twitches before he releases the utensil and slowly pulls away, taking his sweet time to chew.
The corner of his mouth holds a drop of frosting, and I reach out for it, swiping the mess with my thumb.
Without thinking, I set my finger against my own mouth and suck.
The flare in his eyes is a flame of brilliant blue and dark navy with a splash of sunshine.
“Anyway . . . ” he says, like a punctuation on the night.
Panic strikes. I’m not ready for our time to end.
“I love this song,” I blurt, although I have no idea what’s playing overhead. Something sultry and country, and a bit too fast for my next comment. “We should dance.”
He arches those thick brows.
“I mean sometime. In the future.” What the hell are you saying, Taxi? Implying you’ll see this man again. Acting like futures are on your calendar. Don’t chase, dammit.
“I just mean, you seem like a man who can dance. You had that whole one-two step happening earlier in the hallway.” I good-naturedly mock him by digging my teeth into my lower lip, doing my best impression of a white man’s overbite, then fist my hands in the air and pump out my chest three times, making a fool of myself.
He chuckles, thankfully, shaking his head. Then he surprises me by holding out his palm.
“Shall we, then?”
“Now?” My voice cracks unaccountably, when I propositioned him.
“It is the future,” he teases, noting only the seconds that moved time forward. He slips off his stool and steps back, giving me space to slide off mine.
“Here?” I choke next, taking his hand. The bar is empty other than Kodiak, the bartender behind the counter, looking at his phone.
“You said this one is your favorite.”
I still don’t register what the song is, but I step closer to him, like I’m pulled by an invisible string, needing to be woven into the material of whoever he is.
Samson. We should exchange real names, and yet I’m loving the anonymity. He already knows so much about me.
With his hand notched at my hip and the other holding mine near his heart, which races to match the beat of mine, we sway to a song moving a little too fast, pulsing with a beat that doesn’t coordinate with the rhythm he sets.
And yet, I don’t want to move any faster than this moment.