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“Yes, of course,” she says, running off.
Silence takes over the table.
God, this is a terrible idea.
“This is a terrible idea,” I say out loud, looking around at the romantic, dim lighting, the exquisitely-dressed guests, and the looks we’re getting. “I should go.” I start to move, to stand, to do literally anything to get myself out of this situation. “Thank you for everything, seriously, but I can—”
“You can thank me by sitting your ass down and enjoying a meal with me.”
“Isn’t this weird? I mean, you found me on the side of the road after I spent hours sitting across from you in my underwear.” He smiles, and I wonder why on earth I said that out loud. Why would I remind him of that?
“Yes. A sign, don’t you think? That I stumbled across you in your time of need?”
“Or maybe you’re just a creepy stalker following me and right place, right timed your way into a date I already turned you down for.” With that, he laughs, full and deep, his head tipping back and a hand with small scars around the fingers going to his chest.
It’s a good freaking laugh.
So good, every face in the vicinity stops what they’re doing to look at the man seated across from me. The faces range from intrigued to out-and-outshocked.
Strange.
So very strange.
“If I were a stalker and we hadn’t met the way we did, would you have said no? If I was just enamored with you, waiting it out, trying to get up the nerve, and I asked you out when we bumped into each other at the grocery store, do you think you would have turned me down?” He’s asking in a way that I find both irritating and endearing. Because the point he’s getting at—that if he had asked me out in a normal setting, I probably would have said yes, so what’s the point of being a creepy stalker—is valid.
I scrunch my nose, not wanting to admit as much, and he laughs, loud and deep once again.
“Stop doing that,” I say in an annoyed whisper. “Jesus, everyone is looking!”
“Doing what?” His laugh is dying down, but the smile is still in place.
“Laughing like that! It’s loud. Everyone is looking at you like you’ve lost your mind.”
“They would.”
“They would?”
“They would think I’ve lost my mind. I come here a lot.” I raise an eyebrow. “Not on dates. I’m very much single. I just live in the area, and I hate cooking.”
“Okay . . . ?” I say, still not getting why anyone would think he’s lost his mind.
“Lilah, look at me. Do I look like a man who bursts out laughing at random?” Again, I scrunch my nose, and he cracks a smile, but I continue to look him over. He has a handsome face—a wide Italian nose, thick eyebrows, one with that tiny break in it, full pink lips on tan skin. Cheekbones that makeup artists spend days trying to cut into people’s faces.
He’s handsome.
But the lines on his face don’t scream “laughs a lot.” Instead, the deep line between his brows and the ones around his mouth say something else entirely.
“You look like you frown a lot,” I say then use a hand to cover my mouth, eyes wide, becausewhy the fuck would I say that out loud?
What is wrong with me today?
His head tips back again, that deep laugh filling the room.
Okay, so, good sign: he’s not annoyed.
Bad sign: he might be insane, and apparently, he never laughs.
Enough so that a place he frequents often is heavily confused when he finally does.
