I follow more slowly, not sure of my alternative but not sure I like this option. “And where are we going?”
“My place,” he says.
“Your place,” I repeat. “Are you offering me a place to stay?”
Chevy turns, walking backward as he smiles at me. “You know what they say—keep your friends close and the people who may or may not be enemies closer. Either way, I think it’s best for Sheet Cake if I keep both eyes on you.”
Chapter Fifteen
Lindy
I agree to meet Pat for dinner entirely for selfish reasons: I haven’t eaten out in a long time. That’s the ONLY reason. Not because I’ve been thinking about the man nonstop for days now. I’m not here for the man; I’m here for the Tex-Mex. That’s my theme song, folks.
I’m so desperate to prove this to myself that I inhale the first basket of chips in a record two minutes. I can’t talk if my mouth’s full. That’s Manners 101. This single-minded focus on food also helps me ignore the almost-unignorable man across the table.
It helps. But only a little. Pat simply can’t be ignored, the same way you can’t miss the morning sun in a curtainless room. And he’s got mass appeal; it’s not just me. I’ve seen the way women keep eyeing him. Then they look at me, checking to see if I’ve got a ring on while I’m double-fisting chips.
Even as I’m licking salt off my fingers like some kind of heathen, a table of women are appraising Pat. They’re awfully bold. I shoot them my best hands-off, ladies look. Not because I plan to have my hands ON. It’s just rude to stare at a man when he’s with another woman. Have they no common sense? Or self-preservation?
I can feel Pat’s gaze searing into me. The heat of it is like the blast of hot air that hits you when you leave an air-conditioned building in summer. He clears his throat, and I fist my napkin in my hands, trying to draw strength from the cheap magenta cloth. I don’t know how long I can keep up this charade of pretending Pat isn’t there. Resisting is like opening the hatch in an airplane and trying not to get sucked out.
“More chips?” Pat asks, and my self-control snaps.
Fine! I’ll look at him. Yes, he’s still handsome. Yes, that’s my favorite smirky smile. We’ve acknowledged it. Now, let’s move on.
“You seem hungry,” he continues, that smile rising just a fraction more.
Oh, we are, the feral cat purrs. We arrrrrrrre.
I knew there was a reason I’m a dog person.
“I should save room for dinner,” I say, taking a sip of water and sliding as far back as I can in the booth.
I fiddle with the salt shaker, but even in its rounded silver top, I can’t escape Pat’s face. Ugh! The man is a plague. A plague of total hotness.
“How did you get here?” I ask. “I heard you don’t have a car, just an ankle monitor. And how’d you get my number, anyway?”
“Chevy. On both counts.” He nods toward the bar.
My head snaps up, and Chevy waves from where he’s parked in front of the margarita machines and a TV showing some football game. The traitor! I hope my stare adequately conveys the ways in which he’ll pay for this later. It must, because he ducks his head and turns back to the television.
“So,” I say.
“A needle,” Pat answers with a broad grin, and my stomach flutters.
This is a game. OUR game. I’m supposed to say far next, to which he’ll add a long, long way. It’s our shorthand version of the famous song from The Sound of Music.
Back when Pat and I dated, we spoke our own language peppered with movie quotes and song lyrics. And though we spent little time with friends and none with family—per our rules—anyone hanging out with us for more than a few minutes got seriously irritated.