"Because of me or the situation?"
"Both," I admit.
His thumb is gently stroking my hand, and it's all I can do not to pull it back and gain some space--both physically and in my head. Because right now, that's about all I can focus on. That touch. That connection. And the fact that I have no idea if touching me is part of the charade, or if it's something he just wants to do.
After a moment, he lets go, then presses both of his palms to the table, as if he's fighting some irresistible urge. "Will you share?" he asks, and for a second, I have no idea what he's talking about.
"What? You mean the cheese fries? Why?" I quip. "Are you nervous, too?"
"Maybe I am."
"Oh," I say. And I'm not sure if he's teasing me or not.
"You still haven't told me what you learned during your research quest."
I shrug. "Not much. You're not exactly an open book."
"I value my privacy."
"It shows. I learned that you moved here with your parents at sixteen, and that they've now retired and live overseas somewhere. I know you were discovered at seventeen--you were working at some fast food place and an agent saw you. Your first role had one line in some teen-centric series that lasted for about four episodes. But you got commercials and then a few more small parts."
"So far, that sounds like me."
"That's about all of you there is, though. Beyond that, I know that your first big deal job was that sitcom with Rip Carrington. And I know you don't date very much, but that the rumor is that you're seeing Francesca Muratti." I shrug. "Other than that, I know your first major film role was The Price of Ransom, and that it led to this superhero role, and that you're working out hard to get in shape." I flash a quick smile. "Nice job, by the way."
He laughs, and I really like the sound of it. "Thanks. Sounds like you learned a lot."
"Hardly. It's all pretty thin. Especially when you consider I can find out more than that on the Internet about my eighty-year-old, non-celebrity neighbor."
"Like I said, I value my privacy."
I clear my throat, grateful when the waitress returns with our drinks. "Right," I say, then take a sip of wine. "The thing is, a girlfriend would know more. So, I was thinking that speed dating ought to do the trick."
"Speed dating?"
"Yeah, you know. You get matched up and have about fifteen seconds to ask a question. Then you move on to the next person."
He glances around the bar. "And if I'd rather just stay with you?"
I laugh, but something about the way he says that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. "For our purposes, I'm talking the fast questions. Not the changing partners. Although, that could be my first question."
Whatever humor I'd seen in his face disappears, replaced by a completely bland expression. "Go ahead."
"It's just that Marjorie said you don't see the same girl twice." I pause to grab one of the cheese fries from the basket the waitress just slid onto our table.
"Is that a question?"
"No, I'm just wondering why--I mean, why ask me twice?"
His eyes widen, and in this dim light, his blue eyes seem as unfathomable as the ocean. "I thought you knew. There was a picture, and--"
"I saw the picture. That could have been any blonde."
He nods slowly. "True. But maybe the photographer has another picture. One with your face. I show up with some other blonde, and instead of forestalling a media frenzy, I start one."
"That makes sense," I admit. "I thought maybe you just wanted see me again." I say the last lightly, but the deep, dark truth is that I actually mean it
.