Chapter 11
Chapter
Eleven
“Myfairylord, this must be done with haste, For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach, ghosts wandering here and there Troop home to churchyards.”
— WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
T he man who’d brought me home last night was not the man who picked me up the next morning.
The outsides were the same: brown hair, thick beard, ridiculously lush eyelashes, and a chiseled jaw. He still had kindly eyes and a dimple. He wore a new-to-me T-shirt with yet another bad biology pun: I find this humerus . But he gave me the same polite smile I’d seen him give the restaurant hostess, the town sheriff, and my film crew.
He was nice because that was just the kind of person he was. He directed a smile my way and asked how I was doing. My plan had been to bring up last night’s spectacularly un romantic ending and ask if we could have a do-over. I’d written several scenes for him to pick from. Spoiler: they all ended with an amazing kiss.
I looked at the stone-faced, polite man next to me and realized I would have to rethink the kissing plan. What did it mean that he hadn’t kissed me hello? Or texted me? Did he even have my number? I totally needed to give it to him. Except...
He was more closed than the FBI’s files on alien visitors. He did not look at me with interest. I almost poked the space between us like a mime, just to make sure there wasn’t an invisible wall there. I would not cry.
“Hey,” he said, his voice as low and rumbly as ever. He gave me a hand up into his monster truck like he usually did. But instead of threading his fingers through mine and squeezing gently, he let go and shut the door as soon as my butt hit the seat.
He’d shut me out. Or in. Everything was all mixed up in my head.
I watched him stride around the truck, admiring his loose-limbed, powerful saunter, how his jeans hugged his thighs, the assurance with which he carried himself. I would not catastrophize. I would be open and not overreact. Possibly, I was allergic to vulnerability.
Vulnerable. It sounded like the Latin name for a cool flower you’d find in a cottage garden or a dark, secret part of the forest. Vulnerables would be tiny pale flowers with protective, big-ass thorns. They would only grow on glossy vines that gave people nasty rashes in unspeakable places so that no one picked those flowers.
I’d picked a whole bouquet of vulnerability last night and handed it to Maverick. I’d opened up. I’d invited him: Go ahead! Hurt me! I might have angry cried last night after he’d left me. I’d been tired too. Getting by on five hours of sleep a night for four years combined with a two-thousand-item to-do list and working every waking moment would do that to you.
Oye , I liked this man. More than I should. More than I ever had anyone. He meant something to me because I treasured the time we’d spent together, brief as it had been. He made me feel curious and special, energetic and alive. He was my favorite showtune belted out loud, a double espresso with a shot of chocolate syrup. He was my sunshine and a snack when I was starving. He was a beautiful spell voiced at the perfect moment. I was not giving him back without a fight.
“I apologize for being late,” he said, swinging into his seat with easy grace. “Two of our fellow diners from Biscuits two, one thousand; three, one thousand.
Finally, he allowed, “I guess we’re agreed then.”
I nodded because that was the only right next line.
End scene.