Page 24 of Texting My Valentine

I chuckle. Her touch burns hotly through my clothes, making the skin below tingle. “Working out is one of the only ways I can forget the hospital sometimes. Shall we walk?”

I take off my jacket.

“You don’t have to…” she begins as I drape it over her shoulders. “Do that.”

“Too late,” I say, then smirk and flex my arm. “Anyway, I only did it because you seem obsessed with my muscles.”

Her gaze flits over my body, then to my face. “I was being sarcastic.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

I want to put my arm around her, but that would mean moving too fast, wouldn’t it? It’s been a long time since I’ve dated or even thought about it. Sure, I’ve wanted love, a background hum to the chaos of my everyday life.

This is the first time I’m fighting for it.

“How was the rest of the party?” I ask.

“Very twenty-first century. Lily and Cleo were on their phones, and I was people-watching.”

“Sounds… fun?” I offer.

“Does it?”

“For most people, probably not. But if your starry eyes are any indication, it seems like you enjoyed it.”

Her smile lights up her face, but then she quickly pushes it away, almost like she feels guilty for smiling, and I wonder why that is. “I don’t havestarry eyes, Alex.”

“If you say so. Still, I’m right, aren’t I?”

“I like people watching. When I was a kid, I used to play this game. It was…” She pauses. “When I was going through a tough period.”

I clamp down on the urge to ask her what happened. If she wanted to talk about it, she wouldn’t have stopped herself.

“Tell me about the game.”

She stops walking, turning toward the lights of the bars and the clubs. “It’s a little weird.”

“I can do weird.”

“In the bedroom, you mean?” she says, forcing a laugh.

I smile in bemusement. “Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“Okay, that’s creepy. We don’t even know each other, Alex.”

“Why don’t you say ‘that’s creepy’ like you really mean it?”

She grows flustered, which makes her all the more adorable. She’s got her guard up. The bedroom comment seems like a way for her to deflect. Or perhaps I need to take off my wannabe psychoanalysis hat.

“Tell me about this game,” I say when she seems at a loss for words.

“Look at those people.” She nods to the silhouette of the midnight partiers, a few of them smoking. “Now, imagine that your thoughts, your experiences, your memories – you – are anorb in your head.” She looks at me nervously, like she thinks I’m going to make fun of her.

“Okay…”

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