She shrugs. “It’s not the first time I’ve done it. I’ll be okay.”
I look up at her and grin. “It’s probably a good thing you can’t cook.”
She gives me a funny look in return. “Why is that?”
I laugh. “If you’re that clumsy, best you don’t spend a lot of time around knives.” I wink at her and she rolls her eyes, which just amuses me more.
“I may be a little clumsy, but I’ve survived this long,” she grumbles.
I give her a skeptical look. The woman tripped over her own feet trying to answer the door. Awkward and clumsy go hand in hand, and I’m betting she’s more than a little clumsy. And the embarrassed look on her face pretty much confirms that.
“Do you have a compression bandage?” I ask, suppressing a smile and rising.
She points at the door behind me. “In the cupboard to the left of the fridge. There’s an ice bag in there too.”
I nod and head through the door, into a small but expensive-looking kitchen. I grab the bandage and blue ice bag to fill with ice from the dispenser on the fridge.
When I return to the living room, she’s looking down at her hand, flexing her fingers.
“Hands okay?”
She looks up, clearly a little startled.
“Sure, yeah, they’ll be fine.”
“Good.” I settle back in front of her, ready to wrap her ankle.
“I can handle that,” she says in a rush, gesturing for the supplies. “I’ve had a lot of practice.”
I huff a laugh and hand her the ice pack and bandages.
“Sorry again,” she says as she expertly wraps her ankle. Clearly she has had a lot of practice. “I guess this blows our plans out of the water. You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want to.” She uses the last of the bandage to secure the ice pack in place as I settle onto the couch next to me. Like hell I’m going anywhere.
“And if I want to?” I ask, staring into her eyes. She blushes hard and tries to play it off by shrugging out of her jacket.
“Then maybe we can order in and watch a movie or something,” she replies, tossing her jacket over the armchair.
Mm. Or not watch it. I can’t help the thought, but I do manage to keep myself from saying it out loud. Barely.
“Or something,” I murmur. “What’s good around here?”
We spend the next fifteen minutes debating dinner. Poor girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into asking a chef to order takeout. Still, I don’t spare her, rambling about different types of cuisine, chain restaurants, and ingredient sourcing. Better I gauge if she can handle my usual stream-of-consciousness chatter now.
And she listens raptly, seemingly fascinated by every word, which just eggs me on. It’s also somehow … sexy? I don’t know. The way she takes everything in is fucking adorable.
We finally settle on a nearby bistro and order through a delivery service. When I tell her what I’ve picked, her jaw drops.
“A burger? Seriously?” she asks, trying and failing to contain her laughter.
I hold my hands up. “Hey, there’s more to a good burger than you’d think. And while it’s a pretty standard menu item, it’s a decent measure of how good a restaurant is. Because —”
“If they don’t get it right it’s still not bad,” she interjects. “Like pizza.”
I laugh. “Something like that,” I agree. “It also tells you how much attention they pay to the basics. Plus, I just like burgers.”
“Sounds like you’re pretty easy to please,” she says.
Oh, now she’s just baiting me. I give her an amused look. “With some things.”
“What about movie choices?” she deflects, grabbing the remote and focusing on the television.
I slide a hand onto her knee, unable to resist how fucking cute she is. She tenses and looks down at my hand.
“I’m sorry,” I say, withdrawing my hand. “Guess it’s not just handshakes you’re not a fan of then?”
She swallows hard and nods. “I just …”
“Don’t like being touched?” I offer gently.
“I like it when you touch me. A lot,” she says, surprising me. “Being touched on bare skin just does things to me I’m not always in control of.”
I can’t help it, my eyebrows jump at that. “Is that so?”
She laughs. “Yes, but probably not the way you’re thinking,” she replies. Her eyes drop to my lips and for a moment I think she might actually kiss me, until she follows it up with, “I actually meant watch a movie, by the way.”
She suddenly looks very self-conscious, like I’m going to bust her chops for that or something.
“CJ, I don’t give a flying rat’s ass what we do. As long as I get to hang out with you, I’m happy,” I assure her, leaning back into the couch. “But no chick flicks.”
“Not a problem. I’m more of a comedy kind of girl.”
We spend a few minutes finding a movie we’re both interested in watching, then get about fifteen minutes in when our food is delivered. We only half watch the movie, chatting through the meal and beyond as we get to know each other.
Everything I learn about her makes me like her more. We get so comfortable, in fact, that I don’t mind telling her I wanted to punch that big motherfucker who couldn’t keep his eyes off of her at her brother’s dinner. I don’t know how women don’t realize guys like that are all about the hump and dump, but I’m glad she didn’t fall for it.
I don’t tell her that the model basically asked me to fuck her after the dinner, even when she asks what exactly happened. I keep it vague and assure her that chick didn’t hold a candle to her.
I also test her limits a little while we’re talking. She mentioned bare skin being a problem, but as I find ways to touch her gently over her clothing — nothing indecent, just shoulders, arms, leg, that sort of thing — I notice that she clearly enjoys my hands being on her. And damn do I enjoy it too. She’s soft and strong all at the same time. She’s fucking beautiful.
I’m so lost in getting to know her, in being close to her, that the movie ends without either of us even noticing.
“How’s the ankle doing?” I ask, realizing it’s late and she probably needs to rest that leg, even though my night is really just getting started. Hazards of a weird schedule.
“Not bad,” she replies. “Thanks for hanging here with me.”
I reach out and tug on a lock of her hair.
“It was my pleasure,” I say. And for once, it’s not lip service.
She bites into her bottom lip, and I try not to be distracted by it. But she does seem distracted, zoning out for a moment as if lost deep in thought.
“Hey, where’d you go?” I ask, scrutinizing her face.
She wipes the frown from her face and offers an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I was just thinking I probably won’t see you again for a while,” she admits. “Assuming you even wanted to.”
Sweet. She wants to see me again. I can’t help the grin that breaks over my face at the realization. “Of course I want to,” I reply. “But you’re not wrong. I don’t exactly keep banker’s hours.”