Page 56 of Someone to Have
“Didn’t like California?”
“My mom died just before my final interview. It wasn’t the right time to leave.” The silence settles heavy between us, and I rush to fill it. “She was the one who wanted me to spread my wings, and I realized I was doing it more for her than for me. I like having my family close, even if I sometimes wish they weren’tsoclose. I love seeing my nieces, and if I have kids someday, I want them to grow up close to family.”
“You’ll have kids someday. You’re the type.”
“Did you just call me maternal? Because that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“It was meant as one, and there are worse things to be known for,” he says, repeating my earlier words as he parks the truck. The glow of the lights from the restaurant spills out onto the sidewalk, warming the darkness. “Like a manwhore.” He rolls his eyes. “Even one with a heart.”
“Point taken,” I tell him.
He grins. “Agreeing with me looks good on you, Tinkerbell.”
That devastatingly sexy smile makes it difficult to remember that I’m not interested in this man. Not interested, I repeat in my head like a mantra, trying to drown out the memory of his hands on my skin. The truth is, I’m more certain every day that there's so much more to him than his past reputation as a player. And I want to know every single part.
The restaurant is crowded and filled with the hum of happy voices. Skylark locals are clearly ready to brave the cold for the best tacos in town. But we’re seated right away at a booth near the back.The waitress brings us waters, plus chips and salsa. I order my favorite marg and the guacamole while Eric gets a beer.
As soon as the waitress walks away, he digs into the chip, frowning a little when I don’t join him.
“Tell me you don’t have a problem with salsa on its own. Are you an avocado snob?”
I grin. “I’m a perfect-bite snob. I’m waiting for the guac so I can layer it with the salsa and the right proportion of chip. There’s more to eating than just shoveling food into your mouth.”
His eyebrows lift as he points a chip at me. “So that’s what you do.”
“What’s what I do?”
“You build a bite.” He looks thrilled like this is some piece of a puzzle he’s been wanting to solve. “I watched it with the chicken marsala. Start with a forkful of chicken, then add asparagus and potato with a delicate dip in the sauce. Until you ran out of asparagus, and then you doubled up on potato.”
Heat radiates from my chest, spreading up my neck and face like an annoying rash. I didn’t realize he was paying that much attention. No one pays that much attention to me. “Did you seriously notice my food weirdness?”
“It’s not weird. It’s cute.”
His voice softens a fraction, and I almost believe him.
“Toby would argue that point.”
“He’s a jackass,” he says conversationally.
I snort, choking on a sip of water. Why is it so easy to talk to Eric? It’s the kind of easy I don’t feel with most people.
With their effortless smiles and magnetic charm, my brother and sister are universally loved in Skylark. Some people peak in high school, and then it’s all downhill. Toby and Elise have stayed on top of the small-town mountain like it’s their God-given right as Marty Maxwell’s kids.
I don’t think I came close to peaking. Some people are meantto hang out at basecamp and not scale mountains. Pretty sure I’m one of those.
The waitress returns, balancing a tray loaded with our drinks and the guacamole ingredients. She preps it at the table, mashing the avocado and tossing in fresh cilantro and lime. Eric grins when my stomach growls loud enough to be heard over the din of the restaurant.
We place our orders—chicken enchiladas for me and a steak burrito for Eric—and I dive into my perfect bite as we talk more about Hudson and the team. Eric’s eyes light up when he discusses the individual players, which surprises and impresses me. We also talk about my life and the difference between working at the public library versus the high school library. He asks questions about my book club and Toby’s comment about my pirate books. I’m used to having my love of romance novels derided but am unwilling to be anything but upfront about the books I adore. I might be uncertain in almost every other area of my life, but there’s no shame in my reading game.
“Pirates were my thing in high school,” I say like it’s no big deal. “These days I’m more into motorcycle club members.” When his eyes widen, I laugh. “Of the fictional variety.”
He blinks a few times then, to my surprise, asks a series of shockingly insightful questions as to my favorite books and authors with no judgment about the genre. I’m shocked at how happy that makes me. Turns out, being happy also makes me thirsty. I take down my first margarita in record time, and I’m halfway through the second when the buzz from the tequila relaxes me enough to approach the subject I’ve been thinking about most of the day.
“We need to talk about last night.”
Eric’s fork stills halfway to his mouth. “I’m okay if you’re going to tell me it was a mistake,” he says slowly, lowering the bite back to his plate, “but I’m not going to apologize for it.” His eyes lock on mine like he’s daring me to argue.
“I’d like to have sex with you.”
