Chapter 4 #2
“So I’ve noticed,” he says, glancing at the cloudy pints of ale lining the bar. “But I don’t like bitter things.”
“Nobody likes bitter things. You just force yourself to get used to them.”
“Why would I want to get used to something I don’t like?
” He’s amused now, but I’m not totally sure why.
His hazel eyes are intent on mine. They have little gold specks in them, which really isn’t fair.
Such mesmerizing eyes shouldn’t be wasted on this man.
Give them to someone who wears makeup. Who can accentuate them with a hint of shadow and a touch of highlighter. Same goes for his thick eyelashes.
“It’s the human condition,” I explain. “We’ll always prefer what’s worse for us. Always skip lima beans in favor of lava cake. There’s only one way to escape it.”
“And what’s that?”
“Discipline. We train ourselves to like the bitter because it’s good for us.”
“Ah, so you’re a Stoic.” He leans back appraisingly.
“Episcopalian.”
He laughs, revealing dimples that do something very strange to my lower insides, melting them like, well, lava cake. OK, so he’s actually very attractive, if one can look past the Crocs. Which I most definitely cannot.
“I mean Stoic in the philosophical sense. Believing virtue is sufficient for happiness.”
“Of course it is. How else could you attain it?”
“By doing what feels good in the moment.” His eyes hold mine for a beat longer than is comfortable.
I look away first, too shy to continue eye contact with him.
He opens the tiny umbrella from his daiquiri and twirls it between his fingers, then leans over to pierce it into the orange wedge in my glass.
The corner of his mouth tips up into a half grin. “To sweeten it for you.”
Wait, that was flirty, right? God, I’m so out of practice I can barely even tell. My cheeks flame, and I tug down my too-damn-short skirt.
“So,” he says, his amber eyes sparkling, “is that why you’re saving this seat for one of those lima beans?
Discipline?” He raises an eyebrow at me.
The one segmented by a tiny translucent scar.
It only serves to make his face more interesting, offsetting his handsomeness.
As if it were placed there on purpose to give your eyes a little break.
“Or would you secretly rather sit with someone else?”
I turn to him, my knee gently bumping his where the worn hole frays his jeans, our skin touching through the threads of fabric. He doesn’t move his leg from mine, which only makes my cheeks redder.
“I’m saving it for someone with whom I have chemistry. Attractiveness is directly related to pheromone levels, and speaking with one of them is a low-risk way to up my production. So, if you don’t mind—”
“That can’t be right.” His brow furrows slightly. “If attraction is nothing more than pheromones, then how do you explain love at first sight?”
“Easy. It’s not a real thing. It’s just something insecure people say to make their relationships sound more important.”
He sets down his drink. “Who hurt you?”
I can’t help but laugh. The crowded bar bellows at something happening onscreen, but he doesn’t move his attention from me.
“I’m a realist,” I say. “My dad used to brag he fell in love with my mom at first sight all the time, and I saw firsthand how that turned out.”
“She wasn’t in love with him too?”
“Love would not be the right word. Indifferent, maybe. No—something airier and more feminine. Blasé,” I say, my brain lighting up with the right word. “She was blasé about marriage. And motherhood. We simply failed to hold her attention.”
His expression softens from mock worry to something more earnest. My hands are clasped so tightly in my lap, my knuckles have turned white.
Predictably, at the subject of my mother, my pulse ticks up.
The uncomfortable fluttering sensation will come next—harmless yet distressing premature ventricle contractions that have plagued me since childhood.
The sensation of your heart skipping a beat, followed by the fear that the next one might not come at all.
“Ah, you see?” I say, shaking my hands out and wiping them on my knees. “This isn’t working. I’m supposed to be flirting with one of those guys. Not boring you with sob stories about my cold mother.”
His large hand enters my view as it covers both of mine, stilling them with his warmth. When he speaks, his voice is steady and calm, seemingly unbothered by the personal turn this conversation has taken.
“I don’t mind. And I’m not bored.” He hesitates before removing his hand. When it’s gone, I swear, a drop of grade-A pheromones releases inside me.
I lean back, appraising him. “I’m guessing your family is warm. I can always tell when people have wholesome upbringings.”
He smiles. “What gives me away?”
“For one, you aren’t the least bit embarrassed to order a blended drink at a sporting event.”