I turn back to Alex. “He’s funny.”
“He’s the best.” He gives me a wry smile.
“How long have you been friends?”
“I’ve known Leon since second grade. We started the comedy-music thing in high school, just for fun. And no matter what I do, it just never ends.”
I laugh, and he smiles in response, stepping closer and weaving his fingers through mine, making my heart jump in my chest.
My smile drops and I swallow. “That’s amazing. I-I don’t have many friends.”
Eloise was my best friend, but I haven’t talked to her in months.
His brows dip and he steps closer. “I find that hard to believe. You’re easy to talk to.”
I look up at him, only inches away, his eyes dark and focused on my mouth. “I am?”
“Yeah.” His head tilts.
I lean into him.
Then I remember. Garlic clam sauce.
I jerk away. “Sorry, I uh . . .”
He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Can I give you a ride home?”
This is new. Normally, we part ways and I take a cab. For some reason, not making out right away means I get a little more time with Alex. Note to self.
“Yes. That would be great.”
Also next time, bring gum. Why did I want to not make out with him again? I can’t even remember anymore.
His truck is parked up the block, a refurbished classic, the bright blue paint shining under the street lamps—a fancy vintage Ford Bronco. It has to be from the 1970s or something. He opens the passenger door for me, and I slide into the vinyl bench seat. The interior is spotless and looks completely new, but it’s all analog displays. Nothing electronic in here.
“This is a great car.” It feels like Alex. Lavish, sure, but at the same time unpretentious. He’s not the Porsche or Lamborghini type.
“Thanks.” He turns the key, engine rumbling to life. “It was my first major purchase after we went big time.” He shoots me a grin before checking the mirrors and pulling onto the street.
“Did you buy anything else fun?”
“I bought my parents a house.”
“Wow.” I can’t even fathom that kind of success.
Jane, you just don’t fit.
I slap the voice away, focusing on directions to my apartment. There has to be a way to get him to come upstairs with me. I mean, that’s why he’s taking me, right? Isn’t that what people do?
He pulls the Bronco up under a dull streetlight in front of my squat, two-story apartment building, leaving the engine idling.
My stomach flip-flops. I twist my hands in my lap to keep them from shaking. “At the risk of sounding presumptuous, do you want to come upstairs and have a drink? I have . . . water?” And toothpaste. I can brush my teeth and then we can make out on my couch. Or on the floor. Or in my bed. Or hell, right here, I’m not picky.
But what would happen if he did stay the night? Would he disappear in the morning? What if he is the key, the one to make time move forward, the love the psychic was talking about? I can’t really say I’m in love with Alex right now, but I could see myself falling for him. Who wouldn’t? I mean, look at him. I turn in the seat to eye him straight on.
He’s smiling, eyes crinkled—and full of reluctant remorse. “I better not.”
“Are you sure?”
He slides closer to me, tipping my chin up to meet my eyes. “This is too important.”
I nod. “You’re right.” I guess.
“Can I take you out again? Tomorrow? This time I’ll eat with you. And we can get something without garlic.” His lopsided grin makes me melt all over.
I want to argue, to push him harder so he’ll come upstairs and push me harder.
But he’s too cute to argue with.
I laugh. “Sure. Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day.
Sigh.
Can sexual frustration actually kill you?
Chapter Twelve
“Tell me about your parents.”
Anyone else might be taken aback at rapid-fire personal questions on what is supposed to be a first date. Or pre-date. Whatever this is. But not Alex. He smiles.
Besides, we’ve known each other for months, at least, at work. If he thinks I’m being strange or forward, he doesn’t say so. He’s the epitome of easygoing. Even when he’s being Mr. Big Shot CEO of his own company and giving orders, he’s calm and steady and self-assured.
“There isn’t much to tell.” He grabs one of the fries from my basket and pops it into his mouth.
I cover my remaining food with a protective hand. “Hey, grabby hands, I thought you weren’t hungry.”
“I’m not.” His fingers feint to one side, I move to block him, but quick and nimble, he darts to the other side, snatching one from under my hand.
I laugh. “You’re fast.”
Tonight we came to WesBurger N’ More, an old-timey diner on Mission with bright orange vinyl seats, excellent milkshakes, and a juke box playing Elvis in the back.
I made a point to avoid anything garlicky, and I even brought gum just in case. Maybe if I get him to drop me off again and then make out with him in his car, I can turn him on enough to convince him to come upstairs with me. It’s worth a shot.
“Tell me about your parents. ‘Not much to tell’ is probably a good thing.”
“It is. I have a lot to be grateful for.” He rubs the back of his head and gives me a sheepish smile. “I sort of won the parent lottery. My parents are kind, supportive, still together, totally in love. They married right out of high school, but they’re also best friends, you know?”
“Sure.” I don’t know, but it sounds nice.
“When I was sick, they were great. Protective and loving. Basically, they’re boring as hell. Tell me about your parents.”
“Oh, um.” I fiddle with the napkin in my lap, wiping my fingers on it. “Yeah, well, my parents are still together too, but I’m not sure if they’re in love with
