Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Once I write that, the question looks accusatory, so I erase it.
After getting off on the wrong foot a few times with Jason, I don’t want to misstep again. I definitely don’t want to step backward.
But I don’t entirely know how to move forward with him.
I picture my tattoo of the sun and the sky. Breathe.
I don’t need to rush. I’ll take my time. Analyze. See how our date goes this morning before I ask for more.
At the boba shop counter an hour later, we order drinks, then Jason swipes his phone across the reader before I can get mine out.
“I was going to pay,” I say quietly. I don’t want him to think he has to cover me just because he makes more money.
“I got it,” he says, then lifts his hand like he’s going to set it on my back. My breath catches in excitement, even though he stops himself, tucking his hand in his pocket.
But I saw his intention. He’s possessive. I log that as a good sign.
“I kinda pay for everyone when I go out. But I want to pay for you,” he adds, his voice soft. He’s not showboating. He’s reassuring, and his quiet confidence is a booster shot to my own. Still, I’m not entirely sure how to behave with him in public. I’ll need to keep taking the temperature of this . . . date.
Once we have the drinks, we weave through the mostly empty shop. Pop music plays overhead, but otherwise, the place is quiet on a Friday at ten in the morning.
Jason slides into a booth in the far corner of the shop, and I grab the seat across from him. He’s wearing an ocean blue T-shirt that’s snug across his pecs. Even though I’m sure his wardrobe is blue shirt central, I still like this attention to detail.
I tighten my fingers around the cup. I’m not sure what to do. I’ve been on dates, but none like this. None with a guy I like so much my bones hum just being near him. I dart my gaze around, scanning for new customers, for anyone who might know us, who might be able to read me. I don’t entirely trust myself around people when I’m with him. If I smile, I might as well be giving away my soul.
I try to keep my expression neutral.
Jason studies me, then clears his throat quietly. “You okay?”
I suck on some tea. “Yeah. Definitely.”
Jason sighs doubtfully. “You sure about that? I can kinda read you and tell you’re not.”
That melts me too, the easy way he understands me. “Do you think everyone here can tell what I’m thinking?”
“You have a good poker face, Beck. I don’t think everyone else can tell, but I can tell you’re worried. I can see. That’s all. And I want to know what’s going on with you.”
Busted, but I like it. I don’t want to act around him. “I don’t know how to . . . do this,” I say, gesturing subtly from him to me.
“From where I sit, you’re doing okay. But we can leave if you want. Or I can go,” he says.
I shake my head adamantly. “Don’t go.”
He smiles. “I won’t.”
Taking another drink, I try to untangle my thoughts. “My landlady said something this morning that made me feel . . . see-through. She mentioned I could use her driveway if I had guests over. Like maybe she knew I had a guest last night.”
Jason’s eyes flicker with guilt. “Does she have dark, curly hair?”
“Yes. Did you see her?”
“Pretty sure she saw me drive away, but I don’t think she knows I was at your house,” he says, wincing. “Shit. I’m sorry, Beck.”
His apology tugs on my heart. So does the way he says my name—like I matter to him.
I reach to take his hand but jerk back . . .
That’s the issue.
I thought Portia’s comment was what made me second-guess dating, but the real issue is, I can’t hold his hand, and that sucks. But that’s the shitty reality of our situation. “It’s not your fault. Portia’s cool. I trust her. She won’t say anything.”
“Good,” he says, then takes another drink.
“She’s a huge Renegades fan. She offered me a discount on rent the day I signed the lease. I think she’s a mom type.”
“That’s sweet. Not that I’d know personally, but it sounds nice,” he says.
He told me his mom left when he was eight, but that’s all I know. That kind of comment needs following up, but as I work through how to gently ask what happened, he asks me more about Portia, and before I know it, I’m telling him about the birdhouses, her son, the candle I bought her. Talking to Jason has always been easy, and being here feels like a nice, regular date, the kind we’d have if we were just two guys going out. We’d talk about our everyday, ordinary lives like I’m doing. The more I share, the calmer I feel—happier too. “Anyway, she’d consider it rude to reveal anything, so you don’t have to worry,” I say, and holy shit, I just reassured him.