The O Intention(17)

“Why would you want to do that? Catching public transport means you have to talk to people.”

I shudder at the thought.

“Unlike you,” she begins, giving me a nudge with her shoulder. “I enjoy communicating with other people and catching the bus gives me a little extra time to read.”

Her eyes light up at the mention of reading and it’s beautiful to see. I can’t remember the last time I felt so passionate about something… Passion: the one emotion that has eluded me this whole time. The last time I felt any passion was when I was living in Australia with my mom, studying at QUT, a Brisbane based University, and working on my Bachelor of Fine Arts. When my father found out, he pulled some strings and promptly put an end to it. My fine arts degree swiftly became a business degree, majoring in economics, and when I was finished, he moved me to Milan where I ran my first Tempt Hotel. Now, I’m here in California doing the same thing. When you work as hard as I do, in a field you don’t want to work in, you lose passion—in all aspects of life.

“What do you read?” I find myself asking, genuinely interested.

I don’t see her as the kind of girl who reads the classics.

“A whole range of stuff, really.” Her cheeks slight from tan to pink. “Adult Romance mostly.”

I stuff my hands into my pockets and ignore the way one of them feels damp and cold against my skin. Alix hooks one of her tiny arms around mine and I peer sideways at her, searching for a meaning behind the gesture, but her countenance doesn’t change.

“Is there sex?” I question, continuing on with our conversation. There’s nothing more I hate than an awkward silence. “In the books you read?”

She peers up at me, her eyebrows curved perfectly. “What do you think?”

“Right. Stupid question.”

We descend the slight ramp to the underground parking lot. It’s not completely dark. Murky, yellow lamps emit enough light to reflect off the cars and make the sidewalk glow. We walk in silence, but Alix doesn’t have to speak. Through her grip, I can feel her excitement. It flows into my body, kicking up the tempo of my own heart. Our shoes click against the smooth concrete as we move towards the back corner and I can’t help but take another peek sideways at her. Her eyes, usually the color of honey whiskey, are black in this light, but even so, their eager gleam still shines through.

“What kind of car are you hoping for?” I ask, curious to hear what she finds impressive.

She smiles. “Is a Lamborghini too much?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Jesus, a Lamborghini? Don’t start small or anything. How am I supposed to impress you now?”

With a smug expression, Alix glances up at me. “You’re trying to impress me?”

“I dropped water into my lap and ruined lunch. What do you think?”

She giggles. “Well, lunch isn’t over yet. I’m not a great cook, so there’s still a good chance ruining it can fall on my shoulders.”

I fish my car keys from my pocket. “If you can cook better than I can, I think we’ll be okay.”

I hit the button and lights flash five feet in front of us. Lambo or not, my 2014 Jaguar F-Type Coupe R is pretty impressive—and I make a quick mental note not to say it like that again. I have a few cars, but this one I like the most.

“A Jag,” she states simply, letting her arm slip from mine. “Not bad.”

“But it’s no Lamborghini,” I point out as I saunter around to the driver’s side.

Her lips pull at the corners as she reaches out to touch its sleek, black body. “You know, suddenly you’re a lot more bearable.”

I rest my arms on the roof of the car and look over at her. “Suddenly, I’m more bearable? You’re not exactly a capsicum anymore either.”

Alix snorts. “A capsicum? What?”

“Yes, a capsicum—unbearable, sharp and hard to stomach.”

Her lips drag wider—excited by my insult almost. I have to give it to her. She’s a hard woman to offend—not that I was trying to offend her.

“Some people find capsicums irresistible. They’re shapely, firm and delicious.” Her eyes flare. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you to eat your vegetables?”

I definitely don’t miss the double meaning in her words and I feel my eyebrows furrow as I analyze her expression. She enjoys my discomfort, but I won’t let her get the better of me this time.

“I do,” I simply say, before opening my door and lowering myself into the driver’s seat.

I don't open her door for her. She didn’t much appreciate the polite gesture at the restaurant, so I really don’t want to open myself up for another comment about the night we spent together. I was there. I’m aware how awkward it was.