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I don’t want to talk about the accident, the injuries, or the surgeries here in public. Not when I run the risk of emotions surging up my throat, and memories pulling me under. But I don’t like to lie either. “Car accident,” I admit, then try to make light of it with a quick, “It’s fine though. I’m fine.”
His eyes flood with concern and immediate understanding. “The same one?”
I close my eyes for a second. I don’t want to lose myself in time. Don’t want to feel that uncomfortable surge of anxiety as images from that night flash before me. I know how to handle them if they do. But I don’t want to handle them right now, while I’m working. I don’t want to explain everything about me either. The last time I explained that to a guy he shut me out as soon as he could.
“Yes, but I’m okay. Thank you for asking,” I say, trying to be kind, because I know it’s easier for most people to never talk about hard things. I have to give Max credit. At least he doesn’t shy away.
“If you ever want to talk about it…” he adds. The offer is tender, and I’m tempted to take him up on it. But there’s a time and place—and now is not the time nor place.
“Thanks. Maybe,” I say, upbeat, but noncommittal. I nod toward a pack of cyclists, quickly changing thesubject. “So since you’re such a regular, what’s your favorite view? Front or back?”
Maybe sensing I need an out, he jumps on the changeup. “The 360-degree view, Everly.”
“Like that one right there,” I say, subtly gesturing to an older man riding by, probably a grandfather’s age. He has a soft belly and saggy skin, and he’s balls naked, smiling and riding.
Max shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. I do so love torturing him, but maybe I should let him off easy. I nod toward a bar up the street. The sign on the window of Sticks and Stones reads:Have a clothed drink after your naked ride!
“Want to get a drink?” I ask.
With that cocky grin I know too well, he shrugs. “If you can’t handle the view anymore…”
I lift my phone and snap a pic of him as a pack of zombie riders in their birthday suits cruise past in the background. “That’s it. You’ve figured me out.”
“I get it. It’s a lot of naked. I understand it’s too much for you.”
Nope. He’s not winning now. I hold my ground, staring at the cyclists, musing. “I can’t keep from thinking though…what the bike seats are like right this very second.”
He frowns, cringing. “Dude. You won. I’m tapping out.”
I pump a fist. “Victory is mine.”
“You’re too good at this game of chicken, woman.”
“Chicken? We’re playing chicken? I had no idea.”
“What a surprise, isn’t it,” he says dryly as we walk to the bar. He opens the door for me, and we go inside.
The sound of clinking glasses and lively chatter fillsthe air, providing a stark contrast to the catcalls and hollers outside at the parade. As we settle into a cozy booth, the dim lighting casts shadows across Max’s face, highlighting the chiseled line of his jaw, covered in that scrumptious beard. What would it feel like to touch that beard? To run my fingers along the scruff on his handsome face? To feel him rub it against my…
I blink off the entirely unprofessional thoughts as Max spreads his strong arms across the back of the booth.
Which doesn’t entirely clean up my mind at all. The move shows off the muscles in his chest, stretching that gray T-shirt he wears. He’s so stupidly hot he makes me ache. I’m tingly all over.
“So, Everly,” he begins. “How are you going to dress me down in a social media post today?”
I’d like to undress him.
But I ignore that inappropriate thought too. “Thoroughly, Max,” I tease, tracing patterns on the wooden table with my finger. “With a rousing appreciation of all the flesh we witnessed.”
He groans, clearly aggrieved. “Right, of course. I can’t forget who I’m dealing with.”
“Never forget I’m fearless.”
“You could never let me,” he says, but there’s no taunting or teasing. It’s like he’s talking about something else entirely. But there’s no time to figure out what since a server arrives to ask for our order.
I opt for an iced tea, and he picks a beer but then he tips his forehead to me. “You hungry?”
“Sure,” I say, then choose a spinach salad while he picks a chicken sandwich. When the server leaves, I say, “Lunch on a Sunday. Isn’t that weak, as you said?”
