He inches his chair closer, until he’s directly in front of me. He doesn’t smell like his usual ocean-sage cologne. Tonight’s scent is something woodsy. Earthier. Maybe even . . . better?
I need a paramedic.
He places one hand on each of my armrests, giving me an up-close and personal view of his forearms. The muscles in his arms flex as he grips the armrests, and I have to wrench my gaze away— up to his face, which is maybe more dangerous.
While I’ve noticed his crooked smile, his single dimple on the left side, I’ve never paid attention to how lovely his mouth is, his bottom lip just barely thicker than his top.
You’re good at what you do.
“It’s going to,” he says, matching my soft tone. “I didn’t play Curly McLain in my middle school’s production of Oklahoma! for nothing.”
“You didn’t tell me you were a theater kid.” I try to picture him in a cowboy hat—anything to keep me from wondering what his mouth would taste like. His knees are right up against the edge of my chair. If my legs weren’t tucked, I’d be in his lap.
“No, the theater kids hated me. I killed my audition, but I’ve always had terrible stage fright. I’d have panic attacks before I went onstage every night.”
Might have been helpful to know that before agreeing to do a live radio show with the guy. It’s tough to wrap my mind around. He’s never not seemed confident at work, except when he froze up on Puget Sounds.
“You have terrible stage fright,” I echo, the beer in my s
tomach sloshing around. “And yet you’re cool to host a radio show?”
He shakes his head. “This is fine. There’s no audience—well, not one that you can see, anyway. I’m okay with smaller groups, but anything more than a dozen people, and my lungs suddenly decide not to work. Once I found my footing with Paloma, it felt like I was talking just to her.” With his legs, he pushes off my chair, putting a foot of space between us. I let out a shaky breath. Space. Yes. That’s probably good. “You must really be a lightweight. Your face is bright red.”
I fling my hands up to cover it. “Ughhhhhh, I’m gonna get some water. This happens every time. The downside of not being six two.”
“Six three.”
“Jesus.”
I make my way toward the break room, surprised when he follows me. Inside, I turn on one of the four light switches.
When I can’t reach the water glasses on the top shelf, he easily grabs one and hands it to me, showing off one of his particularly enviable six-three superpowers. I mutter a thank-you as I hold it under the refrigerator tap.
“We still haven’t figured out why we broke up,” he says, leaning against the counter opposite the fridge.
“Maybe we should keep it simple. Working together and dating got to be too much for us?”
“That’s not very exciting,” he says. It’s fitting that we can’t agree. “Maybe you were intimidated by my raw sexual energy.”
I nearly choke on a sip of water—that’s how unexpected this is, coming from him.
But hey, I can play this game, too, especially with alcohol loosening my lips. “Or you were never able to get me to orgasm.”
“I’ve never had that problem before,” he says without missing a beat.
With just the two of us in this darkened space, I’m aware of how small the break room actually is. He shouldn’t have followed me in here. I could have climbed onto the counter and grabbed a glass myself because short people are nothing if not skilled counter climbers.
But then he wouldn’t be standing there in one of his Top Ten Most Infuriating Leans, eyeing me from beneath a truly impeccable pair of lashes.
The alcohol takes over. “So . . . we had a good sex life, then?”
One corner of his mouth kicks upward. “Maybe we weren’t having sex.”
Something horrific happens then: I let out this completely nonhuman sound, a mix between a snort and a laugh and a gulp. I shrink back until my shoulder blades hit the wall.
“What, you thought sleeping with me was a given?” he says. “Is my fictional self really that quick to put out?”
“Oh my god, no no no,” I say. “I was just—if we were dating for three months, then we probably—I mean, maybe we didn’t, but—”