Page 36 of Blindside Me
“And the red umbrella?”
“Protection that still lets you see the rain. It’s stupid.”
“It’s not.” His voice is softer. “Other than hockey, I don’t even know what my vision would be.”
That undoes me more than it should.
Damn it. I promised myself I wouldn’t date. Not here. Not again. But I can’t deny this connection. It’s unwarranted and alarming.
Too bad the one guy I find intriguing comes wrapped in an athletic body and grumpy demeanor. It’s a shame because if I were open to a relationship, he’d be perfect.
“I suck at following through,” I confess.
His lips curve slightly. “I can attest to that.”
I smack his leg. “Shut up.”
He laughs, which transforms his face and softens the sharp edges. Then, he grows serious again. “I suck at letting up.”
Our eyes meet, and something unspoken passes between us. For a moment, I glimpse beneath his armor —the exhaustion of constantly pushing, always performing, never resting. And I wonder if he sees through mine, too. Sees the fear behind my chaos, the way I use spontaneity to avoid commitment.
“Yeah? What pushes you?”
He goes completely still, and I know I’ve pushed too far.
He breaks contact. “And what about the Eiffel Tower?”
“Paris.” My voice is whimsical as I study the picture and take a slow breath. “I want to visit there someday. It just seems … romantic. I can picture myself writing a love story in a café while drinking coffee.”
“You’re a romantic?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never gotten the chance to be. Not with my cheating ex anyway. I’ve never let anyone get close to me before him.” My throat tightens. The one time I finally let my guard down after his relentless pursuit, and the asshole proved what I’ve always known: everyone leaves.
“Hmm, then how are you going to write romance if you don’t have the experience?”
Our gaze holds for a beat, and the intensity behind his stare about does me in. I suck in a breath and tell the truth. “Guess I’ll have to write my own happy ending.”
He works his jaw but doesn’t voice his thoughts. The silence stretches, comfortable in its discomfort.
I shift the focus back to him. “Do you read them? Since, you know, you seem to know a lot about them.”
His mouth thins as he studies me. “What do you think?”
“Oh, I think that’s a yes.”
“That’s a no.”
“Sure about that?”
“Positive. There’s no way in hell I’ll ever read a romance novel.”
“Ah, you wait, Klaas. I’ll get you to read one yet.”
“Not in a million years, Trouble.” He shakes his head. “We should schedule the rest.”
“Right. Sundays and Tuesdays?”
“Seven works. Film study is in the morning.”
