Page 17 of Not Catching Love

“Practice. Sketching. Art books from the library. YouTube.”

“I could do all of those things and still barely draw a stick figure.”

A glimpse of a real smile crosses his face. “Everyone can draw a stick figure. You seem like the kind of guy who can do anything.”

Heat creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “I wish that was even close to being true.”

“Aww, are you getting all shy on me now?”

“Not shy. Just making sure you manage your expectations.” It would be awesome to tell him that I can do anything, but there’s something very cool about being human too. I’m not perfect, and that’s okay. Fuck, this conversation isenough to drive home that point. “What do you do other than paint?”

Xander hesitates, then changes the subject. “I’m boring. Let’s talk about you.”

If there’s one word I could use to describe Xander, last on that list would be boring. I want to know more about him, but here in a crowded and loud club, while his roommates linger on the periphery, probably isn’t the place to get into anything personal.

I shouldn’t be getting into anything personalat all. No matter how much I talk around the issue, my attraction to Xander is inappropriate.

“You know, it’sreallyhard to hear in here,” I reply. Plus, talking about me is a dangerous fork in the road where I can either confess to my life suddenly centering around him, or I can direct the conversation to bugs.

I love my bugs. Not many other people do though, and I’m not sure I want Xander knowing about that side of me. I’m better off calling it quits, finding Constantine, and getting the hell out of here. I never should have agreed to this drink.

“I’m okay,” Xander says quickly, stepping in closer. His big purple eyes hit mine, and a wave of lust sweeps through me.

There’s no doubt in my mind that if Xander and I had met any other way, I would have asked him out already. My body responds to him on a primal level, but knowing the little that I do about his past has a softness building behind my ribs.

I might not have all the details, but I know enough that the urge to protect Xander never shifts. He deserves someone who will look after him, support him, hopefully get him the help he needs instead of being a prisoner in his own head.

I can’t be that guy. I can’t be the one who gives Xander what he needs, and I really have to remember my place.

Which is nearly impossible when he’s looking at me like this.

It’s my job to make sure lines aren’t crossed and expectations are clear, especially when the next time I see him, I’ll be clinically checking him over while I talk him back from a panic attack.

I’m unlucky that the first guy I’ve ever wanted is my patient, but if he wasn’t my patient, I never would have met him in the first place. It’s a vicious loop. I’m constantly at war with myself through every interaction.

“I think I’m getting tired,” I say reluctantly. Every cell is reaching toward him, begging to stay here and talk to him, get to know him better, but it’s a slippery slope, and I’ve already given him mixed signals by agreeing to be alone like this.

There’s fun and spontaneous, and then there’s reckless. Reckless isn’t something I want to be, especially not with someone like Xander.

He’s a strong man who’s been through a lot, but I can imagine that he lets himself get hurt way too easily.

“We can go and sit down somewhere,” he says, moving even closer again. “Or maybe go and get something to eat.”

“I had a big birthday dinner.”

“What did you have?”

I know I shouldn’t answer, but I can’t think of another way around it. “Burgers.”

“I love burgers.”

We sort of stare at each other a moment before I work out what I’m doing. “That’s because they’re delicious.” I fake a yawn. “I’m going to find my friend and head out though. It was nice seeing you.”

“Can we dance?” Xander blurts. “Just once. First. Before you go.”

No. We absolutely cannot dance. If we dance, I’ll touch him, and I’m not strong enough for that. He doesn’t make it easy to turn him down either, not with how hopeful his expressionis, but I have to, so I do. Something fundamental in me dies with every word out of my mouth.

“Sorry. Really beat. That’s what happens when you turn thirty-five. You get old.”

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