I hadn’t noticed before, but when he moves, the cotton of his shirt exposes an inked collarbone, a surprise to my wandering eyes.
“Do you have tattoos?” I blurt out.
“Yes.”
“Um…aren’t you going to show me?”
“Show you?” he says. “Ma’am, I don’t even know you.”
That’s right—we’re role-playing, but I suck at it.
“You’re wretched at this.” He laughs. “So horribly bad—it’s like you’re trying to fuck it up.”
Gee, thanks.
“I’m not though!” Pause. “Okay I am bad, but it’s hard just walking up to random guys and being all casual and cool.”
“Fail.”
Tyler—who’s still standing there—watches us.
I clear my throat. “Is that a tat I see on your neck?” Jeez, I’m so redundant.
“Yes.” Where are you going with this? his gaze asks.
“Do you have tattoos anywhere else?”
“Yes.” He pulls at one of the long sleeves of his polo shirt, tugging it up to reveal a colorful forearm.
“Both arms or just the one?”
“Both.” Ashley hesitates. “Do you like it or not?”
Yes—oh yes I like it.
A lot.
“I don’t mind it.” Nonchalantly, I shrug, noting with satisfaction that Tyler has given up too and faded away, and now it’s just the two of us standing alone in a room full of people.
“I’m Georgia,” I tell him, as if introducing myself for the first time.
“You mentioned that earlier.”
I did? I feel my nostrils flare. He’s intentionally being difficult. “My friends all call me Georgie. Or George.”
That causes his brows to rise. “Are you saying you want us to be friends? Or are you just pointing out a fun fact?”
“Both.” I laugh. “Unless you don’t find that fact to be fun.”
“Georgie. That’s…” He searches for a word. “Cute.”
Cute.
Ordinarily, cute is the last descriptive word I’d want to be called, but considering this is Ashley we’re talking about and this is me, and he thinks I’m ugly on the inside…
Butterflies flutter in my stomach.
He wasn’t calling me cute—he said my nickname was cute, yet somehow it feels the same.
A compliment.
“Do you…” I struggle with another question. “Come here often?”
Ashley blinks. “Eh? I go here.”
He doesn’t understand, and it dawns on me that they probably don’t use that idiot pick-up line in Britain.
“Um—that’s a cheesy pick-up line, sorry.”
He blinks again. “Are you…trying to pick me up? I’m really heavy.”
My eyes roll.
“But are you?” he presses.
He’s watching me now with renewed interest, and I can feel my cheeks getting warm. No doubt they’re a glorious bright red.
“Do you want me to?”
“You can’t answer my question with another question. It’s called evasion.”
Well, duh.
Being honest is being vulnerable, and the truth is, I’m not sure what it would mean to want to ‘pick him up.’
I’m too busy for a boyfriend.
Too…
Scared.
He’s leaving at the end of the year and so am I, so getting involved would be so, so stupid.
“Judging by your enthusiastic silence, I’m going with a big, fat no.”
He chugs down his beer, avoiding my gaze, but he can’t hide the dejection in his eyes. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
Again.
This isn’t why we walked back to the rugby house!
“Please,” I scoff. “You’re not interested anyway, even if I was.”
Ashley lowers his cup.
Licks the beer off his lips.
Shrugs.
Shrugs?
Are you kidding me? I want to shout.
“Ugh!” I let out, frustrated, conversation going nowhere. Setting my beer cup down on the nearest surface, I roll my eyes again at Ashley before stalking away in the direction of the front door.
Push through it in a huff, as only a girl can do, letting the cool air soothe me when I’m outside on the porch.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The door slams a second time, and I turn, Ashley’s behemoth body silhouetted by the light pouring out from inside.
“You’re just going to walk out?”
Yes.
No.
“I need to think.”
He’s silent. Watches as I walk to the far end of the porch and lean against the railing, butt perched.
Slowly, he approaches.
“It was just a simple question, Georgie.”
Georgie.
And in that accent, too.
It has me wondering…
…what would it be like to date a guy like him?
He takes up the space next to me, shoulder brushing against mine as he mimics my stance against the banister.
Our hands, braced on the wood for support, touch.
What is he doing?
Surely he doesn’t…
Isn’t…
Why is he touching me?
Why this self-doubt, Georgia? Why are you like this?
“Do you want a ride home?” comes his low British rumble.
“Ride? What are you going to do, give me a piggyback ride all the way down the block?” I force out a laugh.
“See that black truck down there?”
I crane my neck, turning my head to peer down the street.
A sleek back pickup is parked behind a white Jeep.
“Yeah I see it.”
“That’s mine.”
It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in.
“You just walked me home!” I damn near shout. “You had a truck here this entire time?”
He laughs, a pleasant sound that makes the butterflies waken from their spot in my stomach.
“Come on. I think it’s fair to say this isn’t going the way we thought it would.”