Never Been Kissed(38)

Our waiter comes, goes and brings back our two glasses of water. I order a grilled chicken Panini with melted provolone and roasted red peppers with half-fries, half-salad. Hunter gets the New York steak with a side of salad.

I take a sip of my water before he starts – this awful play of getting to know each other – all surface questions that barely tell us who the other really is. I’ve learned more about him in his two lows with me than I could in six months of dating. I don’t know what he wants to accomplish here.

“How many nerdy shirts do you own?”

I swish the cold liquid in my mouth, taking my time.“About forty, I think. Why?”

Hunt’s shoulders bunch as he moves his forearms tighter against his body on the table. He leans in, watching me with those beautiful blue eyes, staring at me like he really can see what I’m all about. Squirming in my seat, I catch his eyes dipping to my chest.

“The Goonies?” Hunter says this with a grin, and I let out a breath. “My favourite movie of all time. I wanted to be Brand when I was a scrawny kid.”

“And how old were you when it came out?” I’m trying to be coy, when inside I’m screaming. I think I’m flirting. I call it talking, but Katie would insist it’s flirting. I don’t know where the two separate and become different things. I think of Jo Harvelle and take a deep breath. I can be a badass; I so can be a badass.

Hunt looks down at his plate, staring at the white porcelain like it’s going to tell him his age.

“I’m twenty-five,” I say. “I love to read, and Supernatural is the best show ever created.” His eyebrows pop up on his forehead, a silent question. I shrug. “I talk when the silence gets too long. One of my bad habits.”

“I’m twenty-eight. Some days I feel a hundred and nine.”

Heavy. I like heavy subjects. I excel at heavy subjects. “Because of your diabetes?”

The way his body stiffens up, it’s like he’s sitting on a bed of nails. I frown. Hunter shakes his head, a smile on his lips. It looks like a smile at his own expense. “Yeah. ‘Cause I’m broken in the health department.”

I bite on my inner cheek. “Do you do this with all your dates? Throw your diabetes at them all the time?” I ask, and immediately want to cut my tongue out. It seems in front of Hunter, I have the capacity to be a sassy badass. Fifty points to Gryffindor!

As for him, he does that looking through me stare again; I try not to break eye contact. “I don’t go on dates.”

I wrinkle my nose, eyes falling from his to stare at my hands in my lap. “So you’re basically telling me you’re a walking STD. Nice. I’ll be seeing you.”

“No,” he makes a grab for my hand, but I dodge out of the way. “Would you let me explain?”

I reach for a parting sip of water and knock it clear on its side. Moving faster than the Flash I get it upright with half the liquid still in it, but I’ve gone and ruined our tablecloth and soaked my jeans and Superman panties.

“Fuck a duck. Good job, Delos,” I mutter, cussing myself out as I use the linen napkin to soak up some water from my jeans. Our waiter materializes at my side, placating me with useless words while my cheeks burn and the icy drip of cold water hits my lady bits and now I’m swimming.

Hunter’s pulling me to my feet, the napkin still across my lap, fisted in one hand to hide the fact that it looks like I peed myself in front of everyone. I look up at him, pulling back on his grip.

“I’ll take you to the washroom. You can use the dryer. I’ll make them get you another chair, alright?” His eyes are stark, face tight. His paw around my hand is gentle but urging me forward. We’re stuck there, next to our table, playing a tug of war without a rope. I let him win and go to the washroom to warm up.

“I’m not good at this shit,” Hunt says as soon as I sit back down. My panties are still sodden even as I tried to open my fly and get some of the warm air down my pants. And then I thought how awkward I would look if someone walked in on me at that point so I stopped. I still have a giant wet stain on the front of my jeans, but whatever.

“What?”

“I don’t take women out to dinner. I don’t do this. I’m awful at it.” Hunt’s index finger waggles back and forth – indicating him and I.

Frown in place, I blink slowly at him, brain engines working at full steam. “I’m pretty sure you don’t talk about exes and your sex life on the first date. Which leaves me with only one conclusion,” that he sees me as nothing more than a friend, and I’m the one that keeps using the word date, “you don’t like eating with a friend?”