Tug (Irreparable 3)

“Are you a celebrity or something? I hate to bruise your precious ego, but I don’t watch all that much television.”

He looks offended, but his mouth lifts again in a bright smile. It’s genuine, and he suddenly looks boyish and sweet, like an enormous mountain of trouble.

“It’s a cliché, but we got off on the wrong foot. Let’s start again.” He extends his hand. “I’m Ryan.”

“Maria,” I say, and shake his hand, noticing the set in his sharp jaw, which gives away his attempt to play things cool. The only question now is how long it will be before he realizes I’m not his typical desperate admirer and gives up.

“Would you allow me to buy you a drink to properly apologize for acting like an idiot?”

I laugh. I could think of a handful of other adjectives to describe his behavior, but he’s making an effort, and I’m trying to be nice. It would be so easy to say yes, but drinks with him are headed in one direction. He devours women and makes no apologies for it. Foolishly, I’m drawn to him, as I always am to men I know will eventually shred my heart into a million pieces. This time, I refuse to cave. “Además, este playboy loco piensa que soy fácil,” I say under my breath.

He grins. “This playboy does not think you’re easy. He simply wants to apologize.”

My skin flames red. Of all the American businessmen I see in TJ, I manage to find the one who speaks the language. I send him a wide-eyed look and quickly lower my head.

“Come on, one drink?” he asks, his voice pleading.

“I really can’t. I need to get home to my grandfather,” I tell him, still too embarrassed to look at him. I do have time for a drink, but his invitation is a trap that will ultimately lead to us bumping fuzzies.

“Another time then,” he offers. “Can I call you?”

He’s persistent, I’ll give him that. What’s wrong with me that I want to give him my number? A phone call turns into a drink, and a drink turns into flirting. The next thing I know—bam, I’m flat on my back. He gets what he wants, and I’ll never hear from him again.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. My life is complicated,” I say and lift my head.

The expression creeping over his face is curious, as though he’s experienced a moment of clarity.

“Well then, Maria, we have something in common,” he says, and produces a piece of paper from his pocket. It’s the receipt from the cigar shop. “Do you have a pen?”

Obviously he’s not accustomed to being denied, but I’m not playfully challenging him. There’s no room in my life for what he’s offering.

“I believe I said I wasn’t giving you my number.”

“You’re not. I’m giving you mine,” he replies instantly.

The sly smirk he gives me is adorable. His knowing that should irritate me, but his confidence is sexy.

I smile and hang my head again. “Ryan …”

He interrupts. “It’s only a phone number. I can’t leave without giving it to you.”

As I lift my head and see his serious expression, I almost change my mind. Almost. “And what’s the point exactly, if I don’t intend to call you?”

“Oh, you’ll call.” He grins. Ryan’s conviction in his ability to get lucky is evidently boundless, but so is my ability to resist him. I think.

“You’re pretty sure of yourself.”

“I can’t deny that.”

With my shoulders squared, I lift my chin. “Well Ryan, I don’t have a pen, so I guess you’re out of options.”

“Cell phone, then?” he asks immediately, as if he’d been expecting my response.

“Nope.” I smile and shake my head.

He makes a dramatic sad face. “Oh, come on. Lipstick?”

I laugh hard, and then look directly at him. He’s actually pretty hard to resist when he’s not airing his superiority. Accepting his phone number is harmless enough. I decide to put him out of his misery and pull a pen out of my purse. When I hand it to him, his confident grin returns.