How to Fail at Flirting(9)

“No!” He wrapped his long fingers loosely around my wrist, the lightest pressure there before his hand fell away.

I flinched, just for a moment. He didn’t seem to notice, and after a slow breath, I kind of wanted him to touch me again.

What would his hands feel like elsewhere on my body?

I raised a three-finger salute as we continued down the street, where people shuffled along crowded sidewalks and milled in small groups. “On my honor, I promise to not mention your colon or any related topics for the rest of the night.”

Not even a six-volume anthology on flirting could save me at this point.

“Thank you.”

“But it must be a little ego boost, being hit on like that.”

“They were way too young and too . . . loud.” He nodded to the ice cream shop, and we walked that way.

“I’ve had my fill of young and loud with my friend’s fiancée and her entourage. Besides, you agreed to get ice cream with me, so my ego is plenty boosted.”

“Are they young, your friends?”

“Thomas is a few years older than me, close to forty. Madison . . . graduates from college next spring.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-one.” He shook his head. “Like I said, that woman back there? No, thanks.”

My gin-fueled buzz was some kind of magical cloak, leaving me light and silly, but not drunk or sloppy. I had enough courage to break the silence. “So then, you’re telling me you like women who are old and, what, quiet? Like white-haired librarians in sexy cardigan sweaters and support hose?” I cringed, tossing my own cardigan over my purse.

“Do you know any?” He flashed his brilliant smile. “When they shush you, it’s mind-blowing.”

A group of teenagers nearby eyed us as I laughed harder, picturing Mrs. Haley, the stooped, ninety-year-old volunteer librarian from my hometown, in a leather corset with a riding crop.

“And the glasses on a chain?” He fanned himself.

I snorted as we approached a small storefront with a neon ice cream cone in the window. Music wafted from the crowded corner where a young man in a flannel shirt strummed his guitar next to an open case.

Jake held the door as the sweet, nutty smell and telltale chill of the ice cream shop surrounded me. Inside, the space was retro by design, with kitschy linoleum tables edged with shiny aluminum molding and a jukebox in the corner. There was a line, and we both inspected the display cases. “Know what you want?” he asked.

I always chose vanilla, but in that moment, it sounded so plain, so boring, so, well, vanilla. I read some options. Pumpkin stracciatella. Peanut butter bacon. Lemon pomegranate granita.

“Not sure . . .” I reviewed the options and tried to ignore how much I enjoyed the heat radiating from his body.

He stared into the display as we moved forward in line. “I think I should get kiwi-strawberry mocha, you know, owing to my Australian filmmaker roots.”

“That sounds disgusting,” I whispered, hoping the employees couldn’t hear me, as it was listed as a signature flavor. “And isn’t kiwi fruit more of a New Zealand thing?”

I stilled. I’d corrected him without thinking about it.

“I’ll have to look it up the next time I’m at the library.” He smiled and took it in stride.

Okay, not the reaction I expected.

“You’re taking chances tonight, right? Let’s pick flavors for each other. Close your eyes,” he coaxed.

I cast him a nervous glance before closing them.

“Pick a number between one and four and then a letter between A and . . . F,” he instructed, all business.

“Two and . . . D.”

“Okay, open your eyes.” He touched my elbow, the brief brush of his fingertips eliciting a sweet sensation of tingles. “There are four cases, and I assigned a letter to each flavor in the case. Now I know what you’re ordering.”

“So, what’s my flavor?”

“It’s a surprise. Do me.” He closed his eyes without waiting for me to respond.

Freudian slip?

I let my eyes wander unabashedly while his were shut. He was tan like he spent time outside. His fingers were long, and his nails were neat without being overly manicured. My stomach fluttered thinking about how those fingers could slide inside me. Good Lord, I am drunk and horny.

“Did you abandon me?” he asked nervously.

I snapped my head back up. “One through four, and then a color. I’m assigning the cases each a color.”

“Okay, four and . . . blue.” He opened his eyes.

We moved to the front of the line, and Jake ordered for me first, a large scoop of dulce de leche.

It sounded amazing. I stepped closer and ordered for him, asking for a scoop of kiwi-strawberry mocha, tickled he’d picked blue.

We left through the shop’s back door and looked for a table on their patio, where white twinkle lights strung above us made the space feel magical. I attempted to scan the crowd, making sure Davis wasn’t there. I always checked.

“I mean this in the nicest way, Jake, but you’re kind of a nerd, huh?”

“How did you guess?” He eyed the neon green scoop with flecks of chocolate in his bowl.

“The whole numbers and letters thing; you were excited about that.” I licked a spot of ice cream threatening to drip down the side of my bowl and moaned while we walked. I could have fallen to the sidewalk and melted into a puddle.