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“Is that what happened? You made out with someone before you saw me?”
I huff. “I wish that were the case,” I reply, but I immediately regret it. Too much information.
I think he picks up on it because he rubs his cleft chin, eyes narrowing, though there’s still a glint of humor there.
I don’t give him the opportunity to think about it too long. “Want to keep going?”
“Keep going?”
“More questions.”
He motions toward me. “Have at it, Ms. Reed.”
A noise interrupts the moment…an engine revving? But it sounds far away.
Jake fishes his phone out of his back pocket and the noise grows louder.
Sweet baby Jesus.It’s his ringtone.
When he gets a good look at the screen, he sends it to voicemail.
“Please tell me that’s not your ringtone,” I jibe.
He winks. “Don’t hate.” And as he goes to squirrel it away, his phone revs up again. His eyebrows draw together as he takes another look at it. Holds a finger up this time for me to give him a minute. “Hello?”
Realization sweeps across his features. “Colton! Hey, man.” He stands and points down the asphalt walking path. “I need to get this,” he mouths.
I gesture for him to sit so he can take the call in private, and I start down the path instead. He turns and faces the woods. “Hey,” he says again. “No, now’s good…”
My feet move slowly, but not so slow that it’s obvious…I don’t think. I want to see what I can get until he’s out of earshot.
“Thanks for reaching out. Rylee wasn’t sure if you’d have time.” A pause. “Cool, cool. Hey, look. I want to pick your brain about Indy.” He turns the other direction, and it makes it harder to hear. I think he says he knows it will probably warrant a longer conversation, and he asks about tomorrow.
My feet slow to a stop and I face the lake. Pretend I’m watching the geese on the other side. Indy. Like Indy racing, maybe?
And who’s Colton? And Rylee?
I make a mental note to research them later.
He heads the other way, his voice now lost in the evening breeze, so I plant myself on the asphalt and wait. Think of other questions to ask. I know his favorite drink already—Jack and Coke. Unless he’s desperate, and then, apparently, he’ll drink beer. I could ask what his guilty pleasures are. Mine are cinnamon rolls and Jersey Shore.
No.
I know where he’ll take that if I ask.
Next.
My phone buzzes, and I check it. Daphne.
NO SLEEPING WITH HIM!
I laugh-groan and put it away. Then think about our friend date last night. About Mr. Faux-lex and how dating is nearly impossible. How I came up with the idea of a dating site that lists all your ugly traits.
That would be an interesting place to take things—what are your deepest scars? What are your hang-ups? Habits?
Not that I haven’t already figured what his vices are: Booze and women.
No point going down that road, either. Someone only needs to dive deeper into those things if they’re planning on something serious. I huff a laugh at the thought and cross my legs. Our…whatever-ship won’t even go past this weekend.
