little knowledge of the everyday details that made her who she was.
“Sixty second spiel?” she repeated like it was a foreign concept. “I’m not familiar with that lingo. Mind giving me an example?”
Sure, I’d play. I knew this was just her way of deciding how much she’d divulge based on how much I did. Women were cunning creatures; that’s part of the reason I was enamored with them.
“You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my shoulder.
I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-in-law Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes.
“Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.”
Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?”
This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there.
“Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.”
Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly.
“Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”
I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience.
“This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.”
I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least.
“Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?”
She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.”
I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.”
She landed a soft punch in my arm.
“And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like
“Sixty second spiel?” she repeated like it was a foreign concept. “I’m not familiar with that lingo. Mind giving me an example?”
Sure, I’d play. I knew this was just her way of deciding how much she’d divulge based on how much I did. Women were cunning creatures; that’s part of the reason I was enamored with them.
“You know. Hi, I’m Patrick Hayward,” I began, “twenty years old, born in Charleston, split my time between here and Montana. I have three pain in the butt brothers I freaking worship. Three of the sweetest women for sisters in law that were all on some mission from God to marry my brutes of brothers. One father who’s the opposite of wearing his heart on his sleeve—although he’s got a large one—and my mother died years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Emma interrupted, resting her hand on my shoulder.
I continued, not wanting to encourage any pointed questions about my past. “My favorite color used to be the color of the Pacific at sunrise, my fav food is my sister-in-law Abby’s biscuits and gravy. I’ve got an addiction to those that there’s no cure for yet.” My mouth watered at the mention. “I want to be a kung fu master when I grow up. I can’t remember the name of the first girl I kissed, but I do remember her being an insanely great kisser—by ten year old boy standards that is, which are no standards.” I grinned over at her, guessing I’d been specific enough without digging into the baggage file to satisfy her. “You know, that kind of thing.”
“What’s your new favorite color?” she asked, redirecting the inquisition on me. “The color of the California sky on a warm summer’s morn?” Her voice was as sarcastic as it comes.
“Although I know my attempts at masking my sensitivity are epic, I’m still something of a tender creature,” I replied, sticking out my lip. “And no, I happen to be digging that green color of your eyes at present.”
Those eyes rolled away from me. “Wow. Now that’s a line,” she said, clapping her hands. “Is that your home run, grade A, top notch, go to line when you’re hoping to woo a woman out of whatever she’ll give you?”
This girl was busting my chops. Hardcore. Had this been any other girl, she would have been mine a week ago, but she was nothing like any other girl. This was Emma. This was a girl as sweet as she was sardonic, as gentle as she was strong. She saw through my crap and had no problems calling me on it. This was a girl I never dared to dream was out there.
“Sure, that’s been a line. Before, anyways,” I admitted. “Not my top-notch line, nowhere close, but this time it wasn’t a line. Just the truth.”
Emma laughed one hard note. “That was a line,” she said knowingly.
“Sadly, no. Just me bearing my soul to you,” I said, remembering why this whole conversation tangent had been taken. “All right, spiel me, Emma.”
I waited for it, making use of the silence to practice my patience.
“This whole driving like a maniac thing,” she said finally, twirling her finger around the windshield, “doesn’t impress women. I know this might tip the fragile scale of your male ego, but I can push the accelerator to the floor with my foot too.”
I sighed, but I wouldn’t push her. Forcing a woman to open up when she didn’t want to was like trying to break open a clam with your bare hands—Mortal bare hands, at least.
“Did you see that?” I asked, turning and looking behind me, letting her change the subject. “That was my ego just falling away. Do you think I should go back and get it?”
She looked over her shoulder, playing along. “Nah. Something tells me you’ve got plenty of reserves.”
I shot her a cock-eyed grin. “Lucky for me.”
She landed a soft punch in my arm.
“And here’s what you girls don’t get. We guys don’t drive like
Similar Books
