Dating-ish (Knitting in the City #6)(56)

Once we were in position, and I noted the way his arms were crossed as well as his grumpy expression, I sought to answer his last question. "If I'm honest, completely honest, I didn't marry David when he asked because he never wanted to fight."

Matt stiffened, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. His gaze suddenly sharpened, like I'd said something important.

"Meaning?" he asked, a breathless quality to his voice.

"I mean, he would do everything in his power to avoid fighting, even if it meant making himself terribly unhappy, which only made me feel guilty. We couldn't disagree. He'd rush to change or fix whatever made me upset, rather than taking a stand. And he never seemed to have an opinion about anything until I shared mine first. And then, one day . . ."

Matt uncrossed his arms and reached for one of my hands, playing with the tips of my fingers as he listened. And more or less melting my heart.

I continued haltingly, wanting to focus on my words, but finding it difficult to do so when he was touching me. "I was doing this story on bodybuilders and gym rats. It started out being a story about the phenomena of people putting on makeup and doing their hair to go to the gym. My editor was curious, do they sweat off their makeup? Or ruin their hair? Or do they only choose exercises that are sweat free? Or what was going on? I thought it was dumb at the time, but I did it because she was in love with the idea. Anyway, that led to a story about gym selfies. And that led to a story about people who spend most of their day in the gym. And that led to a story about body dysmorphia, but it was entitled, 'The Tiny Truth About Bodybuilders.'"

Matt smirked. "Ruh roh," he said, sounding just like Scooby Doo.

"I know."

"How'd you convince the guys to show you their penis?"

I stared at Matt. Is he serious?

When he continued to regard me with curiosity, I said, "I'm a woman."

"Yeah. So? Do women have a skeleton key to get into restricted areas that I don't know about?"

"Yes. Boobs."

He frowned at me and, before he could help himself, his eyes flickered to my chest and then back to my face. "Meaning?"

"I used my boobs."

His frown became a scowl. "You flashed them?"

"No. Of course not, dipstick. I don't need to flash my boobs, I just need to make it obvious that I have boobs."

"Clearly you have boobs." He gestured to my torso. "You are a woman, breasts are part of your genetic code. But what I don't understand are the words that are coming out of your mouth. Again, Greek. I say, 'How did you use your boobs?' And you say, 'Potato dog dancing lamppost.'"



       
         
       
        

I giggled at him and his silly consternation. "Okay, fine. All I did was brush my fingertips along my neckline and asked if they'd show me their penis for a story I was writing."

His scowl eased, his expression morphing into amazement. "That's it?"

"Yep."

"Amazing."

"Yep. Boobs. They're amazing."

He lifted an eyebrow in an over-exaggerated manner, giving me a charmingly lopsided grin. "Do you think if I skimmed my fingertips over my fly it would work with women?"

I threw my head back and laughed. And he laughed. The bed shook with our laughter. And when I glanced at him I saw his eyes were on my neck, but he was still laughing.

"Sure." I wiped tears of hilarity from the corners of my eyes. "Give it a go. See if you can get out of a speeding ticket by gesturing to your crotch."

"Excuse me, Madame Police Officer, so you're saying the thrust-" he tilted his hips forward just slightly, using a silly voice, his index finger skimmed along the zipper of his pants, "-of the issue was my speed?"

I trailed my fingertips along the edge of my bra beneath my shirt. "Thank you for keeping me abreast of the situation," I said, playing along.

Matt's eyes flickered to where my hand moved and he blinked.

His smile wavered.

Neither of us spoke, but it took me a moment to hear the silence, and then it was oddly deafening. His eyes were still on my chest and I held my breath.

Was this it?

Would this be the moment?

Would he . . . do something? Make a move?

The tension was almost unbearable-almost-and I prepared myself for something.

But then he blinked away, his attention moving to someplace behind me. "You're right," he said, a new edge in his voice, his earlier smile present but somehow different.

"I'm right?" I asked breathlessly, my hopes singularly focused on the next words out of his mouth.