Chapter Two #2
“Anyway. You get the idea. But once in a while, when I was going through something tough, he bought me a lemon bar. The last one was about two years ago. When he went into the hospital for the last time.”
Holy shit. My problems suddenly feel so small.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“I didn’t tell you that for—I only told you because I didn’t want you to think I was being a jerk.”
He closes his eyes briefly and rolls his shoulders. When he opens his eyes again, the expression that meets mine is clear and light, all traces of consternation erased.
“How about we split it?” he asks.
It’s a fair and decent offer. The problem is that I’ve tried it. Ahead of the demoralizing heat in France, I was so nervous I could barely choke down a few bites before my stomach revolted. Clearly, I paid for that mistake.
“It only works if it’s the whole bar,” I say, sincerely apologetic. “And your reason is really good. As much as I hate to say it, better than mine.”
He frowns. “Why do you think it’s better?”
“You have that whole dad thing…”
He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have played the dead dad card.”
“It’s a good card.”
He chuckles. “That’s why it was unfair. But I have an idea.” With an index finger, he slides one of my euros to the middle of the table. “We’ll flip for it.”
I frown. “I know that sounds good, but I’m not a fan of leaving stuff like this to chance. Random chance is just random. Not divine.”
He nods like he might have been expecting that. “A competition, then. Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Still pretty much just luck.”
“Fair.” His eyes roam the table, the chairs nearby, and then touch on my arms, just for a moment. “How about we arm wrestle?”
He must be joking, but it’s an interesting proposition and not as unbalanced as it might seem.
I am excellent at arm wrestling. It’s not just about upper body strength, which obviously I have, but also leverage and technique.
Back at the training center, one of Sofi’s favorite pastimes is to challenge male athletes to arm wrestling matches with me in the dining hall.
I can’t beat the swimmers or the gymnasts, but Sofi revels in the expressions of utter defeat that dawn on cyclists and soccer players alike when they get bested by a woman.
Plus, I’d strongly prefer a competition where my own effort will control the outcome. This might be the best offer I’ll get.
“All right,” I say. “You’re on.”
A few moments later, we’ve cleared the table of his books and cups and perched our lemon bar on a chair, like a trophy awaiting its victor.
Sofi has procured another baked good. At this point, she’s lost all pretense of minding her own business.
Instead, she has a bit of chocolate muffin dangling from her fingers and one of the café chairs scooched so far forward she’s practically breathing on my opponent’s shoulder.
He pushes up the sleeve of his windbreaker, revealing a sinewy forearm, and extends his hand.
I slide mine into his. I can feel the rough edges of his calluses, and his palm is bigger than I expected, with fingers so long they nearly envelop my wrist. Strength radiates not just from his forearm, but his whole shoulder.
Well, shit.
“Ready?” he asks.
Over our clasped hands, his gaze settles on mine. The room collapses, like our table is bathed in a spotlight and everything else—chattering customers, grinding espresso machine—has fallen away.
“I was born ready,” I whisper.
We push. His forearm flares to life, long lines of muscles raising across tan skin. Pressure rockets me back. Balancing to one side, I fight to regain my ground. My chest heats as I recruit stronger muscles. Our palms tremble, but remain aloft.
He’s even stronger than he looks. I’ll have to use leverage to hold my own until I can catch him off guard with a burst of power. So, I angle down my wrist and tuck my elbow into my body, pressing hard enough to keep the balance from tipping against me, but without giving away my true strength.
My pecs and biceps burn, forcing a tremble into my hand. I distract myself by watching my opponent’s expression. He’s bent forward, hair fallen nearly into his eyes. I can tell he’s trying to keep his face neutral, but there’s a strain in the slight flex of his well-crafted jaw.
He purses his lips to let out a breath. It shakes just slightly. My opening.
With sudden ferocity, I push. My shoulder screams. I nearly levitate out of my seat, but keep myself rooted to the cushion.
This is the part of the race—the competition—that I love most. The finish.
His arm descends, hard and fast, toward the table. With a thud, his knuckles land against ceramic.
“YES!” I leap out of my seat.
Sofi lets loose the same battle cry she makes when her boat is picking up speed.
I sneak a glance downward, expecting to find the hurt, bewildered expression of the male athletes I best in the training center. Really it should be doubled, given that this guy had something at stake other than his ego.
He’s rubbing the back of his knuckles and staring up at me. Yet the look on his face is anything but resentful. In fact, he seems…impressed?
All propriety gone, Sofi leaps to my side and drags an arm around my shoulders. “That’s my girl!” she says, squeezing me close.
The man scoops up the plate and, when he extends it, maintains eye contact. Heat flares through my fingertips. It’s residual, surely, from the competition.
“I think this is well earned,” he says.
I blink at his plate. “Are you sure?”
Ignoring both of us still staring at each other, Sofi scoops up the pastry and slips it into a white paper bag, probably leftover from one of the several desserts she’s consumed in the last twenty minutes.
He raises a shoulder. “This was worth it.”
The smile he gives me is as warm as his hand felt covering mine.
“Thanks,” I say, breathlessly, as Sofi tugs me toward the exit, clearly ready to move on with her evening.
“Victory again tomorrow, then?” the man asks with a grin.
I raise the pastry bag like I’m making a toast. “Already planning on it.”