Page 36 of Texting Mr. Stranger

“For dating, you mean?”

“Yeah …”

She laughs adorably. “Uh, nobody,” she says. “I’ve never been much of a dater. Or a relationship-er. Or an anything-er, really. When I was a kid, I used to say the only boyfriend I ever needed was my music.”

“And now?”

“I have no time for relationships between teaching and my waitress job. Maybe when Mom’s out of college …”

“You’re supporting her,” I say.

“Just like she supported me throughout high school,” Bella says with a touch of defensiveness.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t mean to do this, but when I hear the tightness in her voice, I reach over and place my hand on her leg—my bare hand on her bare leg. She feels so damn thick, so juicy, so grabbable, so touchable.

“I’m not judging you,” I tell her.

After a pause, she places her hand on mine. “I never said you were.”

Neither of us comments on how strange this is. Two strangers touching as if it’s normal. She tightens her grip on mine as I shift ever so slightly up her leg.

“She’s going to be a veterinarian nurse,” Bella murmurs. “I’m so proud of her already.”

“I bet she’s proud of you, too,” I reply. “Most women your age aren’t working two jobs to support their family. It speaks to your character.”

“I don’t know about that. I’m just trying to keep my head above water.”

“Iknow,” I tell her, and my hand slips even higher again. Fuck. I’m near the hem of her dress now. I can feel the heat of her body.

She squeezes my hand with both of hers, gently but obviously pushing me in the other direction. Message:I’m not going to let you touch me like that.

Using every shred of self-control I have, I remove my hand.

“How’s work?” she asks after a pause.

I stare at the road even more stubbornly, wondering if she’s trying to make a point. She’s an intelligent woman. Perhaps she’s already put the pieces together to figure out I’m not just a CEO.

“It’s fine,” I grunt.

“Whoa, okay, message received. Don’t ask about work.” Her sassy tone makes me glance at her, seeing her playful smile and the daring glint in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to overstep or anything.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just better if we don’t talk about work.”

“Okay,” she murmurs, but I can hear the confusion in her voice. After a moment, she says, “Is it okay if I ask why?”

“It could be dangerous,” I grunt, which is already sharing too much.

“Dangerous?” she repeats. “Right. What’s dangerous about financial investment? Do you work with some tricky clients or something?”

This is just another reminder of how impossible this is—tricky clients. That’s where her head is at. Maybe she thinks there’s a risk of a story leaking about insider trading or something else that, while morally wrong, isn’t killing, extreme violence, amputation, or evil.

“Something like that.”

“You don’t want to talk about it atall, do you?”

I chuckle. “How can you tell?”

She sighs, “Fair enough.”

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