Page 56 of David

“What can I say?” I murmur. “I’m flattered that you have noticed. Is that why you came inside the coffee shop?”

“No.”

He lies to me, his eyes cold like steel blades, his chin slightly tipped up so he can look down his nose at me.

He makes no secret about it, but that closes the topic.

“You still didn’t tell me what kind of man you had in mind for me.”

“Since you’re regularly tapping into your creativity, you should use your imagination.”

I laugh, and my sincere amusement puts a smile on his face.

“You thought you were the man for me,” I say.

His answer arrives promptly.

“Not in the slightest.”

I feel the burn of his words on my skin.

“You deserve better,” he says, his statement and neutral smile throwing me off.

We’re no longer playing with each other, and the silence growing around us only confirms that.

What would make a man like him say that?

And if it is the truth–it does have the asperities of hard truths––then why tease me like that?

Is he setting me up? Testing me?

“You don’t know that,” I counteract, provoking him. “No one knows that sort of thing. Not even I know that.”

I expect him to ask me if I want to find out, but nothing comes from him.

By respecting my opinion, he handed me a riddle.

Why would he say that?

When men toss that line at women, it’s usually an exit strategy, a coward way out accompanied by fake concern and empathy instead of genuine commitment.

It belongs to the ending more than the beginning of a relationship.

We haven’t even started anything yet.

The next question burns my lips.

“What about the woman you brought here with you tonight? Is she your girlfriend? Does she deserve you?”

A satisfied grin glints in his gaze

That was a bait, and I bit.

So embarrassing.

“The woman is a friend.”

“You’re spending the night with her.”

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