Head Over Feels

“It’s a romance novel?”

“Yes.”

There’s not a judgmental bone in his body or his expression right now. His interest might even be piqued by how he’s studying the pages.

I try to swipe it from his hands, but he turns and holds it in the air. Looking up, he reads, “‘You don’t choose when. You don’t choose where. And you don’t get to choose who you fall in love with.’ Huh.” Tapping the book, he’s still looking at the cover when he hands it back to me. “What’s this guy’s name?”

Rubbing my foot along my bunched-up socked ankle of the other, I take the book and hold it to my chest. “Jack Dalton. His rock star persona is Johnny Outlaw.”

“The man knows what he’s talking about.” He tugs his tie off as he heads for his bedroom.

“Yeah, he’s good with his tongue.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “Words! He’s great with words,” I add, hoping he didn’t catch what I said. I’m quick to deliver the book to my nightstand and return, attempting nonchalance when he walks out.

The tie is gone, and his sleeves are rolled up, revealing his sexy forearms. “My mom loves romances—books, movies, songs. She was always reading before she went to bed. She’d tell me that after a long day, a book was the perfect escape from real life.”

“She’s right.”

In the kitchen, he leans on the island with his palms to the marble, and says, “But can the average man live up to the expectations set by a fictional hero?”

I enter the kitchen and stand on the other side of the island from him. “You have nothing to worry about. There’s nothing average about you.” I drop down to get the bottle, thinking I’ll just polish off the rest of the wine tonight.

When I pop back up, he’s staring at me. I ask, “What?”

A smile etches its way onto his face, and then he shakes his head. “Nothing.” As soon as I open my mouth, he’s already moved on—physically and literally. The bottle of bourbon is pulled from the cabinet before he grabs a lowball glass from the other. Dropping a large custom ice ball from the freezer into the crystal, he’s already pouring.

It’s fascinating to watch him wind down. I’ve just performed the same routine to burn off the edges of the day, to dull them. It’s not a habit, but I’ll take it tonight.

He takes the first sip, savoring it with an extended blink of his eyes. When he reopens them to find me staring, he looks at the glass shyly, and that great smile of his grows.

“What are you thinking about?” Maybe I’m wrong for asking what seems like a standard line for a guy, but the innocence of his reaction has me so curious.

“You. And me. Us.” It wasn’t embarrassment I saw, but thoughts of us that had him smiling like that?

Now I’m grinning. “Care to share?” I ask, returning to the couch with the bottle. The remaining wine only fills a quarter of the glass, but that’s all I need.

“It’s nothing.”

“Two nothings now.” I laugh. “Whatever you’re thinking about must be really good.” I drink my wine and slide my legs under me as I angle to face him.

His eyes search the ceiling as though he’ll find the answers up there. “Do you need help unpacking?”

“I’m good. I only brought a few boxes and have already unpacked them.”

Checking his watch, he looks up with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Want to do something fun?”

I glance at the clock in the kitchen. “It’s late. After ten.”

“And we’re up anyway.”

“It’s a Thursday?”

“We used to party until dawn back in college on Thursday nights. Anyway,” he says, waggling his eyebrows, “no one will be the wiser. Except us.”

“Are you wanting to go to a bar?”

“I haven’t eaten since lunch. I found a stale protein bar in the break room around six, but it was as hard as a rock and had expired two years ago.” Rubbing his stomach, he says, “I’m starving.”

“We should go eat. I only had a package of peanut butter crackers back at my apartment.” Excitement zips through me, and I stand. “Just give me a minute to change. I’m a mess.”

“Don’t change a thing. You always look great.”

Looking down at my blue yoga pants and baggy NYU sweatshirt, I reason that I’ve looked worse.

As if he senses the debate in my head, he says, “I know this little hole-in-the-wall place. Good food. Dim lights. Great company.”

I grin, heading to the bedroom to retrieve my purse. “You had me at dim lights.”

When I snatch my bag from the dresser, I catch a quick glimpse of myself in the mirror that hangs above it. Little makeup survived the day, but for some reason, I’ve never felt more beautiful.

When I walk back out, he already has the elevator waiting. Stepping inside, I lean against the back railing. “You coming, Welly?”