Traven shoots out a loud, boisterous laugh like I've just said something funny. I crane my head up to look up at him, and I know he sees the confusion swirling in my emerald eyes when his dingy blues settle on mine. But instead of saying anything, he just comes out of nowhere and kisses the top of my head like we're a couple.
Before I can protest, because this shit is seriously weirding me out, he points down the street. "There we are."
Giving him a tight smile, I try to let his weird behavior roll off my back, even though my intuition tells me that he's not a good choice. The last time we were together outside Meece Building, I never got this vibe from him. I was actually excited that someone was interested in me. How can so much change in two months? And it had, there's no doubt about that.
The farther we get away from the house, the more relaxed he becomes. Like he's switching personalities every five to six minutes of our walk. Crazily, by the time we get to the entrance of the restaurant, he's back to being the guy who accosted me outside class that day.
It takes everything I have not to shake my head, trying to see if my mind is playing games on me. I know I didn't mistake feeling his grip tighten on me. Nor did I mistake the way he proudly strutted like a peacock in front of that house.
Any other house we passed, he was normal and carefree—the version of him that I met and found delightful.
"Um, what was that back there?" I ask, pointing a finger over my shoulder.
Dating hasn't changed that much in three years, has it? I mean, of course, I know it's changed, evolved. I'm not stupid. But do guys really get all stuffy and cock-walking in front of random houses like that?
As Traven gives his name to the waitress—apparently having had a reservation?—we follow her through the restaurant and take our seats at a secluded booth.
Good Lord, this is all I need.
Like a gentleman, Traven gestures for me to enter first, like I can't get in on my own side of the booth, and quickly sidles in next to me, so close that our legs from hip to knee are touching. While we give our drink orders, I subtly move the tiniest few inches to the side, like I'm shifting toward him.
Really? I'm just trying to get some space.
I don't think I like dating if this is what it entails.
You just don't like dating if it's anyone other than Hunter. Admit it. Clearing my throat, I distract myself by striking up a conversation with Traven. He still hasn't told me what all that was outside about, but likely, he didn't even know what he was doing. Or maybe ... Fuck, I could slap myself right now. He was probably trying to make a move and using the whole “so we don’t get separated” bit, so I wouldn't call him out on it.
Well, fuck, now I feel like a bitch.
By the time we place our orders, he's fleshing out all the bad vibes I got from him earlier. He's even making me laugh, and that's a plus. Telling me stories of his brother—who’s four years older and the spawn of Satan, he says—and how they used to get in all sorts of trouble with their mom. How they'd climb trees, nearly broke all the bones in their bodies, and how his brother was the first to write on his cast when Traven did end up breaking his arm.
This easy-going version, when he's not trying to fake putting the moves on me, is a version I could really get into becoming friends with. Maybe ... possibly, it could turn into something more? That is if Traven is thinking the same thing about me.
I'm not looking for wedding bells and more children, but a little fun couldn't hurt, could it?
The waitress drops off our food, and we're so deep in conversation we barely give it a second glance. Instead, we're so caught up in each other's stories that we don't even touch our dinner until it's long since lost its steam.
A little vibration next to my hip draws my attention. "I have to check this. Give me a second."
I always answer my phone.
Reaching into my purse, I pull it out, expecting to see a call from my dad, but when it's a text from Jenna, something tells me I shouldn’t open it, but I do anyway from pure curiosity.
What I see causes me to burst out laughing. Harder than I have in a long, long time. Traven seems confused for a second, but I figure what the hell not, and end up showing him what Jenna sent.
Two of the universal emojis for being a thirst bitch and an eggplant.
Basically, my best friend is trying to call me out for being soaked over Traven's eggplant.
As expected, Traven starts laughing as well. But instead of sounding amused like mine, his sounds a bit forced, like he's trying to get in on the joke, but he can't quite put it together. Deciding to put him out of his misery, I explain it all to him and how Jenna is. His eyes glint with amusement, but soon, as my explanation continues, they take on a darker, more heated, quality.
"Your friend sounds like a trip," he volleys, and I most definitely am not seeing things this time for the sixth time in only just over half an hour.
His eyes really did just glue themselves to my chest. Just like I’m noticing that he’s not as far away as he was when I shifted away to face him.
I clear my throat. His eyes pop back up, but there’s no embarrassment at being caught in sight. "Sorry."
I'm sure you are.
But before I can dig further, my phone goes off again. Heaving a sigh, I push away my plate and answer it without looking, this time a call. I force a smile on my face because I don't want Traven to know what I'm really feeling right now.
There's a difference between hot and cold, and then just plain disgusting. I know for a fact now that I wasn't seeing things when I could've sworn he was sizing me up with bedroom eyes. Now, I'm almost sure of it. His eyes have dropped to my chest multiple times, but since he was keeping up his side of the conversation, I never commented on it. Never know, he could be a boob guy.
However, his staring is getting longer and making me feel more uncomfortable.
I put the phone up to my ear, greeting who I know to be Jenna since I didn't reply to her thirsty text. "No, the eggplant is not causing me to get thirsty, Jenna."
Traven leers at me. I have to fight the sickness in my gut. And not from dinner, but from his lewdness. There’s a difference in coming on to your date just the right amount and being too forward. Traven has been blowing that out of the water. And I can’t help but blame it on the atmosphere of the little Italian bistro he picked out. The booths are nice and cozy, and the lighting is dim. Anyone here would feel like they were surrounded by Italian culture and romance the person they’re with.
"It's not Jenna, Lo," my brother's voice flits through the line. The tone of his voice instantly puts me on edge, causing me to straighten up and go on full alert.
"What's wrong? Is it Maverick?" I nearly screech.
Thankfully, the restaurant is almost empty, so not too many patrons glance my way with disdain for being too loud.
"No," Duncan assures me, but there's still something there. I can feel it.
"Duncan," I tread softly, worried.
He chokes up, which instantly brings tears to my eyes. I’ve never heard or seen my brother cry. He didn’t even get choked up at our mother’s funeral right before Maverick was born. I was the only one bawling my eyes out while standing between the two men who’ve always had my back. And I can’t help but feel like this is another one of those situations.