Page 50 of A Flighty Fake Boyfriend
He glanced at our hands. “You’d have probably turned right back around and gone home.”
“Exactly.” I acknowledged the truth of that. “And you won’t let me do that, is that right?”
“I won’t stop you, Ryan.” He turned his hand palm up and clasped mine. “If that’s what you really need to do.”
I had thought about leaving. “It’s the coward’s way out of a necessary situation.”
He waited while our waitress filled our coffees before speaking.
“It’s not cowardly to protect yourself.” He picked up his fork with his free hand. “Or your heart. Only you know what’s in there.”
“How’d you become an insufferable know-it-all?”
“Ravenclaw.” He lifted his shoulders as if that should answer everything. “It’s kind of our thing.”
Did he realize the chasm that put between us? He’d grown up with Harry Potter. I almost couldn’t take it in.
“I grew up when there were only hobbits, elves, orcs, and dwarves.”
“Oh, you’re definitely none of those.”
“I’m not an elf?” I asked, horrified. “Not even a little bit?”
“Ha. No.” He shook his head. “Can you see yourself with pointed ears?”
Reluctant to lose contact, I ate the last of my food with my free hand. “Speaking of ears, let’s find you some earrings.”
“That’d be a great thing to look for here. Maybe some little delft shoes.”
“Those are from the Netherlands, you know. The tulips, the blue and white china, and wooden clogs. I don’t know why it’s here, but it’s like having Japanese things among Chinese things and assuming it’s all ‘Asian.’”
“Well, technically—”
“Asia and Africa aren’t countries, they’re continents with many discrete countries that have entirely different landscapes, cultures, religions, and economies.”
“You’re right.” He lowered his gaze. “I know that. I was being flip.”
Oh God. I’d turned into a monster. “No, I’m sorry. Certain things are prima facie, though. Unless and until people stop sorting each other into comfortable bins—”
“You’re right. I understand. I won’t do that again.”
Now I was thoroughly ashamed. “You’re the last person I need to be lecturing about anything, Epic.”
His gaze lifted hopefully. “Meaning?”
“It seems to me that despite the spurious MFE you carry, people mean more to you than numbers. Your heart is just…good.”
He gulped. “That’s awfully nice. How can you be sure?”
I wished I knew. But I was absolutely, positively sure the world was a better place with Robert Epictetus Alsop in it. I shrugged. "I just am."
The waitress brought the bill. I let Epic get it. I didn’t want to fight him over that—not when I planned to buy a twelve-pound cast iron aebleskiver pan and ten pounds of mix because I expected him to lug my packages around for me.
“Come this way,” I said when I got my bearings outside. “I saw a shop earlier and I want to go back.”
He let me take the lead while he carried all our purchases in three doubled up jute handled shopping bags.
We’d passed a number of jewelry stores, but several had been run-of-the-mill places with the usual sparkly engagement rings and expensive watches in the window. What I’d been on the lookout for was a place with an on-site designer, someone who made art pieces that happened to be jewelry—things you wouldn’t find anywhere else.
