Page 3 of The Weight of Love

Freaking impressive.

I’m not sure how long has passed while I’ve been staring down at her, still holding her hand. It feels like an electric current from her hand straight through every inch of my body.

I’m hyper-aware of how close she is, the feel of her hand, and her breaths still coming short from the intensity of her workout.

“I’m Clark.”

I’ve lost my rhythm with the whole flirting thing while staring down at her and that magnetic look she has mastered.

Even standing up now, she’s a solid foot shorter than me, maybe more. The angle makes it so that she is always looking up at me no matter what.

It would be easy to think it’s an innocent look, but something about her eyes speaks straight to the darkest side of my brain.

She pulls the corner of her lip in her teeth and turns her head slightly to the side as if assessing if she wants to tell me her name in return.

Oh, I want to feel her teeth on me or bite her lip myself. Both. Definitely both.

“How old are you, Clark?”

What a weird question. I swear she can’t do anything predictable, can she? It does at least snap me out of the rather enjoyable train of thought I had about her teeth on my skin.

“Why does it matter?”

She lets out a singular laugh that sounds almost like a sigh, and her chest rises and falls with it as a small bead of sweat rolls down from her curly brown hair, disappearing down her cleavage.

Focus, you’re going to blow it if you keep staring.

“Well, you see, Cowboy,” she whispers sweetly, tilting her head in the other direction, “I’m not exactly as young as you look. And there’s definitely a ‘Must Be This Old to Ride This Ride’ label on all this. Are you even old enough to know who that is on your shirt?”

Cowboy? Weird nickname.

My inner nerd bristles at the accusation that I don’t know Kirby and have no idea what to do with her. Is she really this difficult? Maybe I should have just kept on staying in my corner.

My fantasy version of her is a whole lot less terrifying. Me and my bright ideas, thinking she’d be a nice girl I could flirt with a little and at least see if I could break out of my pattern of strikeouts.

Her quick comebacks, calling me Cowboy, those damn eyes like the sky after a rainstorm and look like they’re just seeing through me.

What the fuck is she? Definitely not safe. I had hoped to date just a little and get some dust off. She’s setting off all the warning bells.

“I’m twenty-five but have served in the Navy for seven years. I’m pretty sure that ages me up by a solid fifteen years. I’m not sure how, but that’s the math—like dog years. I have to say, though, that I have two things to argue about your age limit.”

She levels me with another stare that has a ripple of heat racing through me.

“One, I definitely know who Kriby is. Kirby’s Avalanche and Kirby’s Dreamland were my jam as a kid. And two, I don’t care if you’re old as dirt. You don’t look it at all.”

“You mean to tell me that this is what does it for you? Sweat-covered, hot mess, looking like I just ran a marathon? How is a middle-aged, sweaty soccer mom your type?”

“Either way, you looked like you needed just a little bit of motivation to finish kicking your glutes’ ass today. So, with the utmost respect, ma’am, regardless of how old you think you are or what you think of my ‘types,’ I can confirm that ass is a work of art.”

“Thank you,” she laughs, shaking her head and closing her eyes lightly. That’s possibly the sweetest thing I’ve heard in a while, Clark. I still think I’m too old for you, though. Thanks for the compliment and encouragement, though.”

Of course, she is shutting me down—they all do, every time. I don’t know why I thought anything different would happen just because I’m hyped up from the pre-workout, but for some reason, her rejection stings way worse than the others.

“How old are you anyway?”

“I’m thirty-seven. I have a fifteen-year-old daughter and an eight-year-old son,” she laughs, “Pretty sure that ages me by about twenty years. The math.”

37-25=12? Twelve years? That’s a silly reason not to continue flirting. I’m pretty sure there’s some sort of hot woman, cougar math that makes all of that fine anyway.

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