The sun reflected on her hair, turning the light color a white-silver around her face. She had discarded her plaid shirt, her arms bare and pale in the sunlight.
I had laughed when she got out of the car; we had matching attire: jeans, white tanks and plaid shirts. She was much sexier in hers, though. Somehow, the sight of her in jeans and a simple tank top was even more appealing than her pretty skirts. The way the jeans hugged her hips, and I could see the small sliver of skin on her back over her waistband every time she bent over. Yeah, I liked the jeans more and more. I wanted to run my fingers over that small expanse of skin. Then follow it up with my tongue. I wanted to taste her—everywhere.
The most amazing part of all was the fact she had no idea how sexy she was. It was an artless, unaffected sexiness, which drove me crazy. I knew she compared herself to Beth and her tall, overall voluptuousness, but to me there was no comparison. Avery’s soft curves and tiny stature appealed to me in a way Beth’s could never touch—or any other woman. She was my idea of perfection. Her body flawlessly fit against mine when I held her in my arms. Her hand fit snugly in the cradle of mine. Her sweet lips were shaped for my mouth only. She was meant to belong to me.
I stifled a laugh as she warily approached Zen, offering him the last of her apple, her tiny hand outstretched and shaking. My favorite horse, ever gentle, nuzzled her palm before taking the proffered treat. Stretching up on her tiptoes, Avery stroked his nose, giggling at his contented snort.
Another male who liked her attention, which was hardly a shock to me; although, I knew she would be surprised.
She was amazing. Dinner, and the entire evening last night, had been too short. Time flew by as we talked and ate, our hands rarely apart. The corner booth was private and secluded; our waitress smiled in understanding when we sat on the same side of the booth so we could stay in contact. Everything with Avery was so natural: exchanging bites of our dinner, sharing dessert, sipping wine, and laughing. It all felt as though we’d been doing it for years, not hours.
“Give me three.” I grinned at her.
“What is it with you and three?”
I bit into my dinner roll, chewing as I thought about it. “When I was younger, and I’d get upset over a project or something, my dad would tell me to stop thinking about the whole picture. To break it down the way they did in football practice. So I found that if I broke it into smaller pieces, things didn’t overwhelm me as much.”
“And three worked for you?”
“Yeah. I’d pick the three things I needed to concentrate on and work with them. Then the next three and so on. I also use it in my practice, as well. People come in and they’re upset or have too much information, so I ask them for the three most important things they need to tell me, and we go from there.”
Her eyes were worried. “Am I overwhelming you, Daniel?”
I leaned over and brushed her mouth with mine. “Only in the best way. But I love getting little facts from you.”
She relaxed and picked up her wine. “I met Beth my first day at university. She was coming around the corner and ran smack into me. Then she stood up, berated me for not looking where I was going, and helped me up.”
“But she ran into you.”
“I know. I told her so, in a snarky voice I might add, and she started to laugh. Then she dragged me out for coffee to say sorry, and we’ve been friends ever since.”
“I met my best friend at university, too. Noah Cooke. Brilliant mind. He became huge in the marketing industry in Toronto.”
“Are you still close?”
I sighed. “We sort of drifted apart. He went through some difficult times, and I got back in touch. We are close again. He gave up marketing and runs his family’s business now. I’ll take you to meet him soon. They have an organic produce store in the Niagara region, and their own winery. You can buy stuff and cook for me.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Second.”
“I’m addicted to mints.”
“I already knew that. I’m not sure addiction is the right word. I’m not sure there is a word to describe the relationship you seem to have with mints.”
“My grandmother always had a pocket full of them. My dad bought them for her all the time. I think I’m carrying on the tradition. After she died, he started getting them for me.”
“And now you have pockets full of them?”
Her cheeks colored. “And my purse. I keep bowls of them on my desk and at my place, too,” she admitted. “They’re my weakness.”
I hesitated, then said what was on my mind. “You use them to cover your nervousness, as well. You can’t talk if your mouth is full of candy.”
She traced the edge of her plate, not meeting my eyes. “I suppose.”
“I’m not judging,” I assured her. “It’s just an observation. We all do things when we get nervous.”
“What do you do?”