A Flighty Fake Boyfriend (Men of St. Nachos #2) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,34
something.” He pointed to his face, so I’d know where to wipe, but in trying to correct it, I guessed from his expression I’d made things worse.
He covered his mouth with his napkin. “No. Um. You just—”
“I know.” I dunked my napkin in my water glass and tried again. “Now?”
He shook his head.
“Better?”
“Almost.” He reached out with his thumb and wiped something off the corner of my lips. When he lifted his thumb to his mouth to suck off the jam and sugar, I couldn’t tear my gaze away. My breath shortened. My heart rate picked up. There were busloads of disapproving seniors around us eating brunch, but that didn’t stop my train of thought from heading straight to Sex City, population two.
I put my fork down and sat back as turned on as I’d been in years.
I swallowed hard. “I think I might be having…mood swings.”
“You think?” He looked at me with such empathy I wanted to drown in the blue of his eyes.
“I might have put being sad on hold for a while,” I admitted. “After Luis left.”
“Sadness can be like that. You bury it in the ground and then someone builds a suburban housing tract over it. Next thing you know, all your shit is flying around the house and your kid is trapped in a television.
“No, I think that was the plot of Poltergeist.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t offer more sarcasm. How did someone so young know exactly when to push and when to nurture? “The wedding is bringing buried grief to the surface, isn’t it?”
“It is.” I reached across the table and laid my hand over his. “I’m so grateful you came with me. I honestly don’t know what I’d have done this morning without you.”
He glanced at our hands. “You’d have probably turned right back around and gone home.”
“Exactly.” I acknowledged the truth of that. “And you won’t let me do that, is that right?”
“I won’t stop you, Ryan.” He turned his hand palm up and clasped mine. “If that’s what you really need to do.”
I had thought about leaving. “It’s the coward’s way out of a necessary situation.”
He waited while our waitress filled our coffees before speaking.
“It’s not cowardly to protect yourself.” He picked up his fork with his free hand. “Or your heart. Only you know what’s in there.”
“How’d you become an insufferable know-it-all?”
“Ravenclaw.” He lifted his shoulders as if that should answer everything. “It’s kind of our thing.”
Did he realize the chasm that put between us? He’d grown up with Harry Potter. I almost couldn’t take it in.
“I grew up when there were only hobbits, elves, orcs, and dwarves.”
“Oh, you’re definitely none of those.”
“I’m not an elf?” I asked, horrified. “Not even a little bit?”
“Ha. No.” He shook his head. “Can you see yourself with pointed ears?”
Reluctant to lose contact, I ate the last of my food with my free hand. “Speaking of ears, let’s find you some earrings.”
“That’d be a great thing to look for here. Maybe some little delft shoes.”
“Those are from the Netherlands, you know. The tulips, the blue and white china, and wooden clogs. I don’t know why it’s here, but it’s like having Japanese things among Chinese things and assuming it’s all ‘Asian.’”
“Well, technically—”
“Asia and Africa aren’t countries, they’re continents with many discrete countries that have entirely different landscapes, cultures, religions, and economies.”
“You’re right.” He lowered his gaze. “I know that. I was being flip.”
Oh God. I’d turned into a monster. “No, I’m sorry. Certain things are prima facie, though. Unless and until people stop sorting each other into comfortable bins—”
“You’re right. I understand. I won’t do that again.”
Now I was thoroughly ashamed. “You’re the last person I need to be lecturing about anything, Epic.”
His gaze lifted hopefully. “Meaning?”
“It seems to me that despite the spurious MFE you carry, people mean more to you than numbers. Your heart is just…good.”
He gulped. “That’s awfully nice. How can you be sure?”
I wished I knew. But I was absolutely, positively sure the world was a better place with Robert Epictetus Alsop in it. I shrugged. "I just am."
The waitress brought the bill. I let Epic get it. I didn’t want to fight him over that—not when I planned to buy a twelve-pound cast iron aebleskiver pan and ten pounds of mix because I expected him to lug my packages around for me.
“Come this way,” I said when I got my bearings outside. “I saw a shop earlier and I want to go back.”