First Real Kiss
“Shah! Because your weekly maid service hasn’t arrived yet? A stray bagel crumb pollutes the stainless-steel countertop?” But when I looked over, he was shoving a bunch of bedding off the sofa, and shuttling a few stray bandage wrappers and empty water bottles into a trash can. Right. He was sick, convalescing on his couch. “Sorry to come unannounced.”
“Why are you here?” He pushed some leather-covered throw pillows aside and made room for me on the sofa. He patted the spot next to where he sat.
I hesitated. Sitting down was a kind of commitment. “I’m not here to sit.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because I have questions.”
“You can ask them sitting down, right?” His voice had a hint of weariness. “What’s in the boxes?”
Well, he’d just gotten out of the hospital. I should cut him some slack. I sat down, but I kept my distance, pressing my back stiffly against the edge of the armrest. The hard edge.
The surroundings, however, didn’t fit the man. At least not in that moment. Luke Hotwell lounged in flannel pajama pants, a Torrey Junction High School Football t-shirt with a few holes in it and the neck stretched out, his hair a tousled mess.
I gulped away my fascination with his scruffy attractiveness. No! He’s not attractive. He’s my enemy. Probably.
“I brought you some french fries from the café downstairs.”
His eyes brightened. The weariness vanished. He reached for the clamshell, which I spirited out of his reach.
“I’ll share it if you answer me this: how did you know about Jasper?”
“You said you don’t have a dog.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I don’t know about him.”
“Stop being meta.”
“I never really know what that term means.” He rubbed the side of his head, near where a bandage was taped over his ear.
“I’ve never told anyone about Jasper.”
“You have a secret dog.”
Ugh. This wasn’t working. “I’ve never told anyone I wanted to name a dog Jasper. Ever. So you shouldn’t know it, especially considering our relationship.”
“That it’s tense?”
“That it’s nonexistent.”
“Is it?”
Was it? “I mean, yes. We are barely acquainted. I’d call it a hostile acquaintance.”
“It doesn’t have to be, does it?”
“If you’re going to tell people like Roland that they should give up hope, yes. It has to be hostile. I have to save the world from people like you.”
“You’re a savior, huh? How did Roland die, exactly? I haven’t heard.”
Neither had I, to be honest, but that wasn’t the point!
“Stop it, Dr. Hotwell.”
“Luke. And you’re Sheridan.”