Page 26 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

Maybe the big hero is a little bit of a ‘fraidy cat in non-life-threatening situations.

“Um.” I start, even though I don’t know where I’m going.

“What?” Gordon whips around and slams the ladder into the tree.

I smother a laugh with one hand as he, Mr. Solid, looks discombobulated and curses softly.

“Just wondering if you’re okay. You left awfully fast last night. Did the food make you sick?”

“No. No, it was so good,” Gordon praises, nodding hard, genuine warmth in his voice.

I like that. I love that warm richness in his tone.

Makes me wonder again what I did that caused him to bolt last night, after he seemed so happy. After I thought we were both so happy.

“I’m glad you liked it,” I murmur. “Thanks for listening to me play, too. I know I got carried away. That could drive a person nuts.”

“I loved it. I loved the food. I loved the music. I love... I have to go.” Gordon’s face turns to flint right in front of me, almost like an actual statue.

“It’s cool,” I say quickly. “I get it. I’m younger than you, and probably not coming off as super mature, what with being unable to manage my own summer vacation, losing my cat, and needing someone to babysit me and help me make friends.” I give a wry smile, shaking my head. Nope. This has not been the week to meet a guy. Not a guy I’d ever hope to make something last with. I’m at my worst, and all my life, it’s been drilled into me that I need to be the best in everything. I clear my throat and shrug, “I’m also not sure I’m sticking around this town. Why would anyone want to head to a third date with someone like that? Can’t even get my cat in line—although to be honest, I have no idea how the heck he’s escaping!”

“We should figure that out.” Gordon looks up into the tree, squinting into the sunlight, frowning as he rests the folded ladder against the trunk.

The “we” was nice, but I’m sure that isn’t any indicator of... anything. “I did take out the trash this morning, but I was absolutely sure I shut it after me. I checked three times.”

“Mm.” A grunt.

We stand together. Staring. Not speaking. Chopin is purring like he’s innocent.

It shocks me enough that I almost drop him when Gordon suddenly whirls me to face him, pulling me in front instead of standing side by side. “I can’t let you think bad things about yourself. I don’t like talking. Where I come from, talking was not welcome.”

There’s a pause, and I can’t help but reach up with my free hand, holding Chopin in the other arm, letting my fingers lightly rest on Gordon’s shoulder. He looks so... agonized. As if talking physically pains him. “You don’t have to speak,” I reassure, shaking my head, fingers stroking now. Soothing.

“You’re the first person I’ve liked talking to. Who makes me want to speak. And you are... you are too many good things for someone like me. I would not be a good date.” The words come out thick and gravelly, and Gordon winces away from my touch.

“But last night was the best date I ever had. I mean it. It was relaxed. And happy. I felt like... I felt wonderful because I thought you liked it, too. Right until you bolted out the door like someone had threatened you with commitment.”

“You do not want commitment. You want vacation flings.”

“That’s not true,” I roll my eyes at my own folly. “I wanted to live the dream of a wild girls’ cruise with my besties and too much alcohol. That’s not what I want in reality. In reality... I want a guy who loves to listen to me play the piano, who thinks Filipino comfort food is God’s gift to his taste buds, and who doesn’t mind cat hair.”

Gordon’s eyes get wider and wider with every word, and so does the shocked oval of his open mouth. “But... He should also be handsome. And have a lot of degrees. Or play an instrument. Or a sport.”

“Or save people’s lives. And be a good role model. Also, there’s this guy I like who has amazingly large hands. He’d be a killer pianist, if he’d give things a chance.” I know I’m pushing—and I don’t even know why I’m pushing. I guess I get the feeling this was over too fast, and neither of us wanted it to be. There’s a difference between chasing someone who wanted to run and retrieving someone who was afraid to stay. “I feel like this great guy might be afraid to give things a chance. Lots of different things.”

“He’s not afraid of that. He knows it will end badly. He will make a mess. The girl will be disappointed, sooner or later.”

“Why? Are you going to cheat on her?”

Gordon looks as though I personally defecated on his precious firetruck. “No! I would not leave. I would be honorable and faithful.”

“Then maybe let her— I mean, let me decide what disappoints me. Because I have to say, so far I’ve liked you better every time we’ve been together.”

“Even today?”

“Yep.”

Gordon frowns at me. His dark eyes pierce mine and pin me in place. I feel like I should back away, or run, or apologize for analyzing this guy, for making it way too obvious that I want to see him again. He probably just wants some space. Most guys like to spread things out. A date. A text the next day. A date the next week. Lather, rinse, repeat.