Yet still, I struggled. I didn’t like being vulnerable. At all. I’d been vulnerable when I was a kid and clearly that had not worked out for me.
“You don’t like being called tough?” he guessed, lifting an eyebrow at me.
I glanced over his head to the window behind him. “It depends on how you mean it.”
“It wasn’t an insult.”
I looked at him, found his mouth curved with a whisper of a smile.
“You expected me to be weak?”
“No. I just didn’t expect you to be this tough.” He took another sip of his drink, watching me over the rim, then replacing it to the table. “But I guess maybe you’ve had to be tough.”
“So then it’s allowed?” I challenged, not quite understanding why his statement irritated me so much. “If a woman has to be tough, because of circumstances beyond her control, then it’s allowed? Otherwise—”
“Whoa.” He held his hands up, his eyes alert. “You can be anything you want or need to be. And don’t assume this is me acting like I’m giving you permission, or like you need someone’s permission to be what you are. I don’t think you need my permission or anyone else’s. No one does. But since you specifically asked, this is just me making some statements that are obvious—at least, they’re obvious to me. Okay? You do you. You’re tough, for whatever reason, and that’s great.”
I couldn’t help it, his response—which I found surprising and wonderful—fractured my composure and made me smile.
And I was admitting before I could catch myself, “You’re also different than I expected.”
“Oh really? How so? And if you call me a mansplainer, I promise I won’t say another word for the rest of our marriage.”
That made me laugh. “No. You’re not a mansplainer. And for the record, I hate that word.”
He seemed surprised by this. “Why do you hate that word? I think it’s hilarious.”
“Hate might be too strong. I guess I don’t like it.”
“Why?”
“Because men aren’t the only ones who do it.” I was specifically thinking about two women on the board at Caravel who seemed to consider me an idiot because I was young, and I’d been born into my position rather than earning my seat at the table. Their hostility only made me want to prove myself more.
Dan gave me a look, like he didn’t follow my logic.
“It should be dumbsplain, because women do it too.”
“Yeah but—at the risk of being a mansplainer—may I suggest you think of it this way.” He cleared his throat, sitting up straighter in his seat, his tone adopting an instructional air. “We use human and mankind all the time to mean everyone, right?”
“Right . . .”
“So, why can’t mansplain also apply to everyone? Also, for the record, most of the guys I know who get upset at the word ‘mansplain’ also call each other—and pardon my profanity—pussies all the time. So that’s a dumb fucking double standard if you ask me.”
I laughed, unable to stop myself, especially since he’d asked to be pardoned for using the word “pussies” but didn’t seem to realize he’d just dropped an F-bomb.
He eyeballed me, looking a little confused by my laughter, like he wasn’t sure if I was laughing at him. “So, how am I different than you expected? Am I taller?”
Still smiling, I allowed my gaze to examine his handsome face. “You’re self-aware. In unexpected ways.”
“I suppose you mean I have a sensitive side.” Now he smirked, looking a little smug. He was really cute when he looked smug.
Once again, I was reminded of how exceptionally talented Dan was at distracting me and making me not care that I was distracted; or letting my guard down; or saying, doing, and feeling things I wouldn’t typically allow myself to say or do or feel.
Like right now. I was staring at him and it wasn’t through my filter of aloofness and control. He was also staring at me. My stomach colluded with my heart to switch places because—if my brain could be trusted—it looked like he was giving me the sexy eyes.
The sexy eyes.
The ones he’d been withholding since Vegas.
I melted. And I probably would have done something extraordinarily embarrassing—like tell him how much I liked him—except we were fortuitously interrupted by the arrival of sandwiches.
“Turkey, grilled cheese, and cheese steak.” The restaurant worker plopped the trays down in front of us, not caring whose sandwich was whose, and effectively broke the sexy-eyes spell.
Also, my phone chose that moment to buzz where I’d left it on the table. We both glanced at the screen and I snatched it up as soon as I read the message.