“I don’t know, I wasn’t really listening,” I say.
“You were supposed to.”
“They’ll be gone! What does it matter?”
Now he reaches across the table and steals my last pickle spear from my plate, taking a bite. That teasing half-smile never leaves his face, like everything he says or does or thinks is some kind of secret joke, and I’m in on the secret.
“Well, what did he say about it?”
There’s a nervous flutter behind my ribcage, like eels wrestling in the mud. I keep my spine straight.
“That it’s nice?” I say, shrugging with an insouciance I don’t feel. “That it’ll be a break from this backwoods town and his incompetent coworkers?”
Silas’s face darkens at incompetent coworkers, and I don’t find a small twinge of satisfaction in that as I lean my own elbows on the table and take another drink of my beer.
“I think there’s hot springs,” I go on, trying to remember much beyond babe I can’t wait to get out of here and spend a whole weekend with you. “And a river, maybe?”
“Was it Ironwood Springs?”
I narrow my eyes.
“That sounds right,” I say.
For a moment, we look at each other.
“Why?” I finally ask.
In answer, I get a slow smile. Silas takes his time settling his beer on the table in front of us, rubbing his hands together, then leaning in until he’s leaning on his elbows, a wickedly conspiratorial look on his face.
I didn’t know Silas could look wicked. It… works for him, in a way I didn’t expect, his eyes flashing and a lock of red-brown hair falling over his forehead. My stomach flips.
“Silas,” I say, slowly, enjoying the way my tongue curls around his name. “Are you thinking something devious?”
In the low light, his eyes have gone gray-blue, the dark spokes shot through them deep navy. His almost-freckles are invisible, and his eyes search my face with a long, lingering look before that charming smile chases all the wickedness away like shadows at high noon.
“I bet we could ruin their weekend,” he says. “You in?”