Page 7 of Side Piece

He laughs and reaches for me, and it’s like the sun just came out. My hand warms instantly under his touch.

“You grew up with foreign politics,” I say.

“Partly. I love everything there is about politics. Bit obsessive.”

“It’s cute.” I lift my lips in a smile. He’s fucking adorable when he talks about how much he loves work.

“Let me pause a moment. Did you just call my obsessive nature cute?”

“I did.” Now I smile wider. The fact his pathological need for work seems to mirror mine makes him pretty fucking sexy. Like he might not mind if I stood him up to write. He leans to me and smiles.

“You. Woman. Temptress. What am I going to do with you?” He touches my face briefly with the back of his hand. I shrug while my stomach flutters at his words. “My dad gave up ABC and on-air reporting when he fell in love, to have a family and be a nobody.”

“That’s odd, but kind of amazing and cool.”

“How is that cool? I feel as if his voice could have been important to a national dialogue, and he silenced himself.” His voice is stern and alarmed.

I explain my thoughts, “But it seems he chose love. He chose to follow her path. Our histories are littered with stories of women giving up their careers for the men they loved. It’s lovely to hear that in reverse.”

He sits back in his chair, and my hand is now unattended. He sips his beer and contemplates it. Maybe he’s thirsty, but it appears to me he’s a little bowled over by my observation.

“I’ve never thought of it that way. But I do see the wear and tear on him. I think the ‘might have been’ weighs on him still.” He clearly holds this man in high regard but judges him for choices he made instead of understanding why. I walk in other people's shoes for a living, so maybe I see a bit more in it than he ever has. He sips his beer and changes the subject. “Where did you go to school?” he inquires.

“Guess.”

“Do I get multiple guesses? What do I win if I guess correctly?” I’m glad we’re back to being silly and flirtatious. Enough heavy stuff. This is supposed to be a fun evening, not one where we pick apart our psyches and vilify our parents.

“Not sure yet. You may ask two questions before three guesses and NO googling!”

“Did you have student loans?”

“No.”

“Interesting.”

“Is your degree in writing?”

“No.”

“I’m going to noodle on it and get back to you.”

I try to concentrate and be witty, but it’s difficult. Between the heady feeling I get looking at him and the volume of alcohol in my system, I’m struggling to concentrate. He’s so smart. Scary whip-smart. His college probably had lots of bricks and boys named Chase.

He asks, “The book you’re writing?”

“Yes?”

He puts his hand on my knee, and my breath catches a bit. “How will it end?”

I lean in and get a whiff of his manly scent. I want to lick him very badly. “As they all should, with a happily ever after.”

“But, you’ll torture them first?”

“That’s the fun part.”

He shifts a bit in his seat but still stares directly at me. His eyes telling me they see a whole lot more than I’m telling him.

“Do you ever write something tragic?”