Page 5 of Who I Really Am

Until Kyle, I spent my whole life being cautious, in relationships at least, and look where that got me. He may not want me, but he’s not the only fish in the sea.

The bartender brings my plate. My companion finishes off his meal, alternately watching me eat and the games playing on the TVs suspended above the rows of bottles of far harder drinks than what I’m sipping.

Despite my decision to throw off restraint, I decide to only sip the beer. For one,ick. For another, I’ve already consumed half of his, on an empty stomach, no less, and I know for a fact the termlightweightwas invented for me.

Every so often, he makes a wisecrack about one thing or another. I smile each time, even giggle. It isn’t obligatory; he has a surprisingly sharp sense of humor. If he’s working hard, it doesn’t show. Good. Men who try too hard are a real turnoff.

I’ve consumed roughly half of my cherished onion rings and a third of the burger when I hit my limit.

He grins over. “You can’t be done already?”

“I am.” I take one last sip of beer and set it down with a clink of finality.

His gaze sweeps over me, takes me in in a lingering sort of way. I know he likes what he sees. I may be a novice at the full-on pickup, but I do know how to get a man’s attention. I square my shoulders into a posture I know makes the most of the shirt I chose for entirely different purposes earlier today. Sure enough, his eyes follow.

He turns, finishes off the last of his beer, and finally, those amazing green eyes latch onto mine. Encroaching on my space for the first time tonight, one arm across my seat, his sleeve brushing my skin, he leans a breath closer. “You want to get out of here?”

I nod my answer. A lump has overtaken my throat.

We’ve each already paid, so he takes my hand in his larger one, and we weave through a sea of vacant tables toward the exit.

I swear I feel the bartender’s knowing eyes boring into my back. For a moment I hope the floor might open and swallow me whole.

The rain has mostly stopped, but drops from the roofline splatter us as we pass under. I let him lead me across the lot to the rear end of a shiny black quarter-ton, extended-cab pickup. I know a little about trucks because, one, it’s Texas—duh—and two, my brother drives one very similar to this.

He turns without warning, and I read a question in his eyes. For the first time, I notice a healing but still tender-looking cut near his hairline. He takes my other hand, as well, and waits until I squarely meet his gaze. “You’re sure about this?”

The lump rises up but, “Yes,” I blurt before I can think. I’m so, so tired of thinking all the time. I’m also tired of being alone.

In the next instant, I’m not alone. I’m fully in this man’s arms, arms I can feel are muscled beneath the cotton fabric. His mouth descends, and I melt inside. Shifting, his lips and breath move across my ear. “Your place or mine?”

I hadn’t considered the options, but the thoughts swirling through my head are a lot about my Christian parents and the standards they raised me with. “Yours.” It’s the least I can do.

He holds up his keys. “Ride with me?”

Nodding once, I cross over from imprudent to flat out reckless.

But I trust this man, for all the good my instincts are worth.

He presses the fob and the truck beeps. He holds the door for me, then circles round, puts the key in the ignition, and starts the engine. I lay my hand on his arm on the console. “I’m Lise.”

With only the streetlights to make things visible, I question what to make of whatever it is that flits across his features. Am I doing this wrong?

But then he grins, a look I find increasingly charming. “Marco.”

I let out my breath, abruptly feeling microscopically less dirty—a budding feeling I haven’t wanted to acknowledge since, I’ll now admit, it reared its head somewhere between the delayed takeout order and the drink he bought me.

I shiver. I am well-acquainted with coastal weather, but tonight’s dampness is getting to me. Must be the shirt, but even my feet are getting cold.

Marco turns the temperature dial deep into the red, then stretches across the seat back and fingers the hair resting on my shoulders. I welcome the touch, yet it gives me chills, so I’m no warmer for it. Eighties rock is the soundtrack to our tryst, playing softly from the speakers.

As we travel south, leaving the main business district behind, his fingers sketch lazy circles around the back of my neck. Here we are, headed for a scandalous tryst, yet his touch is almost pure. I’ve been groped more invasively than this by guys in the school cafeteria.

“You don’t have an old boyfriend, or maybe a big brother, I need to worry about, do you?” I see the corner of his mouth tip with a smile. He means it in jest, but there is a brother who, yes, would give him, um…literal you-know-what…if he knew. But he’s three hundred miles away, so that doesn’t count, right?

“You’re safe,” I assure him. He takes me at my word.

I close my eyes and soak in his touch. I didn’t plan on this tonight—or ever—but I’m tired of my hurt. I’m tired of my anger. I’m tired of being on the outside looking in. Seven of my friends married this summer. I was bridesmaid in six of those weddings, served cake in a seventh. That’s six never-to-be-worn-again dresses shoved in the back of my closet. Seven weekends I’ll never get back. One of them changed me forever. At the time I thought that was a good thing.

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