“To a kennel?” Ford finishes, raising his brows.
I point at him. “Yes! A kennel. Thank you.” Then, attempting to regain my composure, I take a deep breath and hold up my glass, placing the blame on the alcohol. “Sorry, I’m not usually this forgetful. It’s just, um, been a long day.”
“Hence the reason you’re sitting alone in a bar?”
“Pretty much. Though,” I say, swirling my drink and shooting him what I hope is a seductive look from beneath my lashes, “things are definitely look up.”
Ford leans in, and his hand, which is already on my knee, slides up a notch. “I’m certainly glad to hear that.”
I spread my legs a bit, just enough to hint at where I’d like his hand to go, of the direction I’d like this night to head. Feeling bold, I press my hand against his and move it up even further, so that his fingertips brush the uppermost part of my inner thigh. Ford’s jaw tightens, tics, and his eyes darken even more, dropping to my lap. He’s so close I can taste his breath, detect a trace of mint beneath the tang of his beer. I part my lips, lean in closer…
And he pulls away. The bastard pulls away, slides his hand out from beneath mine, and reaches for his beer. Clearing his throat, he closes his eyes and takes a drink, a long drink, and as I watch his Adam’s apple bob, I imagine ripping it right out of his throat.
I’m so fucking embarrassed.
“So,” he says, and there’s an edge to his voice, a formalness that wasn’t there before, “you like animals, huh?”
For a moment, I just stare at him, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. But then, remembering that I told him I was a dog sitter (a freaking dog sitter, of all things!), I nod. “Yeah, I do.”
I don’t.
“They’re my passion.”
They’re so not.
But since I don’t know what my passion actually is (aside from Hollis), I have no other option but to pretend to be completely enamored by shedding, drooling, four-legged fur beasts.
God, I wish I’d said something else. Anything else.
Like astronaut. That’d be cool.
“I’d love to have a dog, but I travel so much for work, it just wouldn’t be fair to the animal. For example, I’m shooting a wedding in Iceland in late July, followed almost immediately with a show up north, and then a series of adverts for a backpacking company down in Patagonia in the fall. Traveling so much,” he says, glancing down at his bottle, a shadow sliding over his features, “is freeing, yet you almost become imprisoned by the stability you give up, that comfortable feeling of home. It’s like freedom bound in chains, if that makes sense. Hell, sometimes even when I am home, wherever that may be, it feels like I’m not.” He sighs, but when he looks up again, his smile is firmly in place, the sunshine back in his eyes.
Funny, even though Nicholas and I don’t travel a lot (at least together), I know exactly what he’s talking about, and can’t even recall the last time I truly felt at home…anywhere. But I’m reeling from rejection, so instead of answering, I swivel away, out from between his legs, my knee knocking roughly against his in the process. Holding up my empty glass, I signal the bartender for another drink.
“But now that I know you,” Ford continues, his voice soft, “maybe I can revisit the idea.”
I prop my chin in my hand and shrug, like I couldn’t care less. Which, as a matter of fact, happens to be true.
Get a dog, get a cat, get a goddamn monkey. I don’t give a shit.
The bartender brings my drink, and when Ford makes a move to pay, I hold up my hand. “Nope. I got it. It’s fine.” I push a twenty across the bar, tell the guy to keep the change, and stare straight ahead. In the mirror, I can see Ford’s brows dip, his smile following suit.
“Becca.”
“Hmm?” I don’t turn, just continue watching him in the mirror.
Ford, however, is oblivious to the looking glass and our reflection in it. His focus is on me; his entire body is turned my way, his torso leaning in, back in, the way he was before…before I was so utterly humiliated.
“Did I do something to off−” His voice cuts off abruptly, and he reaches up, raking a hand through his hair. “Fuck, of course I did something to offend you.”
Now I do look at him, if only to prove how unaffected I am by his rebuff. “Please. I’m hardly offended.” I arch a brow and smirk. “Though it does sound like someone needs to get over himself.”
Despite my jab, Ford laughs. “Look, the last thing I want you to think is that I don’t find you attractive. And that I wouldn’t enjoy, well, you know…”
My face remains a mask of indifference.
When I don’t say anything, he continues in a rush. “I just don’t want you to think that’s all I’m about.”
I know what he’s referring to, but since I want to hear him say it, decide to play dumb. “What do you mean? What don’t you want me to think you’re about?” He blushes and works his mouth for a moment, and this new awkwardness about him makes me laugh, gives me back some of the power I relinquished moments ago. “Oh,” I say, pretending to have an a-ha moment. “You mean fucking?”
His eyes widen.
I snicker. “I get it, I get it. You don’t want me to think you’re trying to lure me back to your place for the sole purpose of fucking me.” I say the crude word again, because every time I do, the red on his cheeks darkens, spreads. “And you don’t want me to think that the only thing you’re about is fucking.”
“Becca…” The blush has bled down into his neck, and I turn towards him, face him again, and run my fingers across his jaw, slide them down to his collar bone.
This time, he doesn’t back away.
I shrug, hooking a finger in the V of his t-shirt. “Don’t worry. If that’s the way you want to play this, then it’s totally fine. We can just stay here and keep drinking, talking, and not”—I lower my voice to a whisper—“fucking.”
He swallows hard, and when I shift my hand down to his thigh, slipping it between his legs, his breath catches. Satisfied with his reaction, I lean in further, pressing my lips to his ear and lowering my voice. “But you see, Ford? The fucking part? That’s exactly what I’m about.”
So, I guess I’m not as bad at flirting as I thought.
Though really, how hard is it to talk the average guy into bringing you back to his place?
Not very, am I right?
Ford, however, is turning out to be anything but average.
And I’m not talking about the size of his dick.
Because even though I woke up in his bed this morning, I still haven’t seen it.
The guy is a hard sell, taking me back to his place for the sole purpose of making me breakfast at midnight (again with the sustenance), and then, after eating, tucking me into his bed while he slept on the couch.
He hasn’t even kissed me yet.
Sure, sure…it’s sweet. And most women would appreciate the chivalry, the restraint he displayed when I tried every move in my sad, outdated little bag of tricks to get him into bed.
But me?
Screw sweet.
I’m not looking to be impressed. I have no use for gallant self-control. I’m not in this for his mind, his heart, or his respect.