Page 27 of Forever Wild

“Hazel, huh? Who knew there was a word for color-changing eyes?”

“Most people, actually. I’m pretty sure it’s a well-known eye color.”

“Is it, though?” I scratch my chin. “I’m definitely above average as a person, and I didn’t know about them.”

Smirking, she throws it right back at me. “Might suggest your assessment of your intelligence is incorrect.”

“Oh, please.” I wave my hand down my front. “I am anything but average.”

“Sure, you might be physically above average; the ‘professional athlete’ title suggested that would likely be the case. But, if the rumors surrounding the professional sports world are to be believed, you likely aren’t even smart enough to tie your shoes without repeating the story about the bunny going in a hole.”

Her lips are tight and her eyes are gleaming, holding in the smile and pride she feels from her comeback, and it makes that little ember that sparked to life on the plane burst into a small fire.

“Oh, trust me, I’m quite able to get things into holes without the help of any kind of rhymes.”

Chapter thirteen

Bryn

My cheeks are starting to strain from how much I’ve smiled tonight. And I’m certainly not going to need to get in any sort of an ab workout tomorrow with how much I’ve laughed—shit, I might be able to skip abs all week at this rate.

We’re almost done with our entrees, and I can honestly say this is the best date I’ve ever been on. Or, at least, it would be if it were a date. Which it’s totally not, because neither of us date! Gah! Why do I have to keep reminding myself of this?

As the waitress brings out the dessert menu, I glance at Jameo. He’s concentrating on the options, and I take the chance to look him over. His beard, which he—thank God—did not shave down into a mustache, is thick and dark. His hair is styled slightly. He’s paired dark jeans and a white long-sleeved button-up, transforming him into the type of man you only see in commercials. He may be the most handsome man I’ve ever met in person.

He catches me staring, and I quickly glance back down at my menu, asking, “So, are you going to get anything?”

“Actually…” He looks a bit nervous, and I wonder if he’s about to blow me off again. “I was thinking we could walk a few blocks and see if we can find some ice cream.” He runs his finger down the side of the menu as he continues, barely taking a breath. “I mean, I know this dinner invite came at the last minute, so maybe you’ve got something else planned, but I could definitely use a walk. I know you really like ice cream, so maybe we could get some.”

He glances up at me, and I nod. “Sure. I’d love that.”

Jameson stands up. “I’m going to run to the bathroom really quickly, then.”

The waiter brings the check while Jameson is in the bathroom, and, as I know this isn’t a date, I just go ahead and throw my credit card down. I am fully aware that my bank account can handle the $220 charge better than I could emotionally handle the awkwardness of figuring out who pays.

I’m filling in the receipt as Jameson comes back, and with a quick flourish, I finish signing my name and stand up to go.

Looking confused, he asks, “Did you pay?”

“Yup.” I shrug, grabbing my phone off the table.

“Shit. Bryn, I didn’t mean to make you pay. I asked you out. I definitely intended on paying.” His eyes look a bit frantic, so I instinctively reach out and put my hand on his arm— a gesture we both follow with our eyes, unsure what to do next. Then, as if he’s made a decision, he turns on his heel, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm, and starts walking to the door.

Neither of us say a word as we navigate through the tables scattered around the restaurant. Jameson drops my hand as he pushes through the door, holding it open for me.

The weather outside is still warm, though the heat from the day is being swept away by the cool evening breeze common this time of year.

I take off toward the direction of the ocean, guessing ice cream will be that way, but not really caring if it takes us a while to find some. Jameson keeps pace with me easily. He keeps opening his mouth like he’s about to start talking before giving his head a slight shake and continuing forward.

I give him some time, finding the whole thing slightly amusing. Usually, I’m the one who is unsure of what to say.

We walk in companionable silence, our hands brushing against each other every few steps. I know I could take a step away from him at any time, but the zing that passes up my arm and into my core each time it happens is making me a little bit giddy. You’d think I’d had a bottle of champagne with my steak tonight—rather than the Guinness I’d sipped on—with how light and bubbly I’m feeling.

Jameson stops suddenly, turning to look directly at me. “Thank you for dinner.”

He is so serious. I feel like I’m missing something—something important. So I pause for a second, searching for the answers in the dark green depths of his eyes, noting how the streetlights are making gold flecks ignite within them.

“Of course. I’m truly happy to buy you dinner. I’m having so much fun tonight. And…” I trail off as I look at him. Whatever. Might as well say it. “Honestly? I get it. It’s hard to tell who likes you for you versus those who are just using you for fame or money. I don’t ever want you to question that about me.” I look into his serious eyes again. “I like hanging out with you, and I’d rather be clear that I’m not interested in your money than get a free dinner. Though”—I shrug—“I do really like free things.”

---