Page 4 of Make Me Yours
“I’m in the second year of my Ph.D.”
“Wow.” He stared at me as though seeing me for the first time. I could practically see him trying to calculate my age. I knew I looked younger than my twenty-five years, and telling people you were studying for a Ph.D. had a way of intimidating them. But Cohen didn’t seem thrown off, just…impressed and curious. I liked his honest reaction. According to his grade, he was probably twenty or twenty-one.
I wondered what to do now. There was a bat loose in my apartment, and it was too early—or too late, depending on how you looked at it—to call my landlord.
Cohen stood silently studying me, and I was suddenly self-conscious about my appearance. I’d fallen asleep without washing off my makeup, so I was sure to have smears under my eyes, and my hair probably looked like it’d been styled by a raccoon. Way to make a great second impression.
“Liz? As in Elizabeth?” he asked, softly.
“Nope, Liz as in Eliza. But everyone calls me Liz.”
“Eliza,” he said thoughtfully. The word rolled off his tongue in a way that was both foreign and reminiscent of long ago.
It reminded me of the past too much, and a pain stabbed at my chest. “Call me Liz,” I corrected.
Cohen was silent for a moment longer, then took my hand and pulled me toward the door. “Come on, Easy E. Let’s go get your hangover fixed up.”
Easy E? “Where are we going?”
“Breakfast. And don’t argue. Bat hunting makes me hungry.” He grabbed a long-sleeved T-shirt and yanked it on over his head.
I laughed and followed him to the door.
I noticed him attach something to his belt loop and when I got closer, I saw that it was a pager.
I followed him down the stairs and fell in line beside him as we began walking down the block. I made a point of eyeing the pager strapped to his waist, cocking an eyebrow at him in question. “Nineteen-ninety-six called and wants its pager back.”
He chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head. “I need it for work.” He adjusted his T-shirt so that the obtrusive object was concealed.
“Are you a pimp?”
“Nope.” He smiled.
“A drug dealer?”
“Um, no. I’m a volunteer at the Chicago Fire Department.”
“You’re a firefighter?”
“Yeah.”
Wow. That would explain his insanely muscular body. “How often do you…”
“Get a call?”
I nodded.
“I’m always on call, and attend a training every Monday night for two hours.”
That was interesting. I’d never known a volunteer firefighter. I wondered if that was a lot to manage with school and studying.
We reached a small diner at the corner. Despite living nearby for two years, I’d never been to this place. It always looked a little too shady. A flickering neon sign announced that it was open twenty-four, seven, and bells above the door chimed when Cohen pulled it open and held it for me. Walking by him, I got a lovely whiff of fabric softener and what had to be his own masculine scent. Mmm. I wanted to stop and press my nose into his chest, but I kept walking. The sign said to seat yourself and I chose a pleather booth near the window.
Cohen slid in across from me. He lifted the two menus from the napkin holder and handed me one.
“Thanks.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
