Lana
Bates watches me and sips his beer while he mulls over his questions.
He’s been quiet for a long time, so he must have a lot of them.
That can’t be a good sign.
The more he learns about me, the less he’ll like me. That’s always the way. Hopefully, he’ll keep the Q I just can’t tell them right.
I haven’t spent enough time in close quarters with rugged, deep-voiced men with big, rough hands, so I lack the necessary experience required to pull off the correct intonation and timing. ”
I look him over again, knowing time with him would help me.
“Can you please put your hands back on the table where I can see them?” I ask politely.
“I like them. I’m also delighted by that very hard body of yours having a soft spot for genuinely odd people.
If you bring back your hands, I’ll share the tale of my evening’s epic failure.
I think it’s probably a story other people would find funny, so it’s about as close to a joke as you’ll get from me. ”
As if in a trance, Bates lifts his hands back onto the table with his palms pressed to the surface.
I study them a moment, then encourage him to flip them over so I can lay mine on top and admire the size difference.
“I had a blind date,” I confess quietly. “An acquaintance from school set me up.”
“An acquaintance?”