Page 109 of Debugging Love

I regard him cautiously trying to assess whether he has any tells: a twitchy lip, a nervous wiggle. Anything to indicate that he’s lying to me.

He just looks like Chance. An offended Chance, actually.

“What did you expect me to think?” I ask. “You made it very clear on our first date that you’re just a player trying to get some.”

Nowhe’s offended, like I just said his mom cheats on his dad with the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, and various other European landmarks.

“Where did you get that idea?” he asks after he cools down a bit.

“Match.com, Christian Mingle, Zoosk, Farmers Only.”

Chance’s memory banks unlock and realization bursts forth, making his head heavy again. He catches it with his hands. Again. This must be his tell. He’d be horrible at Poker.

“Caught ya in a lie, didn’t I?”

He gives his face a single rub and then lowers his hands and shifts his body to look at me straight on. “I can understand why you got the wrong idea. But I am not a player, Danni. I’m looking for my soulmate. That’s why I go on lots of dates. Not to hook up.”

His comment requires much blinking on my part. I have to look away while doing so, however, because Chance’s face has gone soft and his eyes have smoldered down to their last ember, making them kinder, more approachable, but no less sexy.

“Soulmates don’t exist,” I say.

“That’s what you said on our date.”

I peek at him, not trusting my body with a lingering gaze. “Because it’s true.”

“I don’t agree. And I’m determined to prove you wrong.”

“By going on more dates.”

“Danni.” Husky is back. “The day after I saved you from the spider, I canceled all my dates. Or I tried to. Savannah never texted back and I didn’t want to stand her up. In hindsight, I should have.”

Both of our bodies are pointing toward the deep end now. Chance’s forearms are resting on his thighs, his hands loosely folded together, water dripping from his fingers.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

That’s the sound of my resolve leaking away. Why would he cancel his dates? I think on this for a moment before it hits me like a cudgel. Adrenaline lights me on fire.

“I’m done swimming,” I say hastily as I rise to my feet. “I…I didn’t bring a towel.”

“They have complimentary towels.”

“Okay. I need one.”

“Danni?”

“Hmm?” I turn my head like I’m going to glance at him, but I can’t quite manage it. Mostly because he can’t know I look like a Flamin’ Hot Cheeto.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great,” I lie. “Just tired.”

“Do you mind if I come up with you?”

“Sure. To sleep. In your room.”

“Of course.”

He passes me up, grabs three towels, hands two to me, and uses the third to wipe down his chest and legs. So help me, my eyes are glued to that towel, or what’s under the towel. It doesn’t help the Flamin’ Hot Cheeto situation.

---