“This isn’t real pizza.” Cannon makes a mock-disgusted face as he grabs his fourth piece from the dish and bites into it, demolishing half of it in seconds.
He’s complaining, yet he’s eating as fast as he can breathe. Men can be so ridiculous sometimes.
“What do you mean, this isn’t real pizza?” I wipe the corners of my mouth, then my fingers, before I toss my crumpled napkin on my plate. I can’t eat anymore, even though I only had a piece and a half. There are too many emotions swirling deep inside of me at the moment, and I can’t really control them.
Too tired. Too nervous. Too sad.
“It’s too thin. I mean, it’s good, but it’s not exploding with flavor like the stuff I love back home.” He finishes his piece, his gaze glued to my plate the entire time. “You gonna eat that?”
“Go for it,” I say, pushing my napkin away from my leftover slice of pizza.
Cannon grabs it and shoves it in his mouth, then drains the second glass of Coke the server brought him maybe five minutes ago or so. “I don’t know why I’m so fuckin’ hungry.” He covers his mouth with a fist, hiding a burp. “Excuse me.”
I study him, thoughts of my prim and proper mother flitting through my brain. She’d hate him. Despise him, really. He’s ill mannered, doesn’t speak proper English, definitely doesn’t eat properly, and he’s American.
All deadly sins in my mother’s impossible-to-please rulebook.
“You okay?” he asks after a few minutes of silence. I’m sure he can sense my mood, and how quiet I’ve been since we entered PizzaExpress. I usually love this place. I was so excited to show it to him, to have a quiet night out to dinner before we go back to his hotel and spend the rest of the evening naked in his bed.
But my mood became more somber as the minutes ticked by. He’s leaving me tomorrow afternoon.
Leaving. Me.
I don’t like it. Not at all. And I know I’m being ridiculous and I barely know him, so I shouldn’t be so sad. All those logical explanations sound perfectly logical, yet what’s happened between Cannon and me can’t really be explained logically at all. And yes, we ha
ve combustible sex every single time, and I shouldn’t pin our entire relationship on sexual chemistry, but I can’t help it.
Our sexual chemistry is unlike anything I’ve shared with anyone else before. He also makes me laugh. He’s sweet. He’s interesting. He doesn’t chastise me for my blundering ways and my bad sense of direction and the many other minor faults I know I have but can’t remember.
I need to face facts. I’m a little in love with him. Not all the way, because that would surely be impossible, but a little bit?
Yes, I am. A little bit in love with Cannon Whittaker.
This giant brute of a man, a professional football player with the NFL who has scads of money and could have any woman he wants, and who happens to live in San Francisco. I will never see him again. He’ll go home and forget all about me.
And I cannot stand the thought.
“I’m fine,” I finally say, offering him a weak smile.
He reaches beneath the table and rests his big, warm hand on my thigh just before he leans in and whispers, “You’re also a liar.”
I lean my head to the side when his mouth brushes the sensitive skin below my ear, trying to fight the shiver that wants to take over. “Don’t mind me. I don’t want to ruin your mood.”
“My mood is shit because yours is.” He shifts away, his fingers slipping beneath my chin to tilt my face up, our gazes meeting. “Tell me what’s wrong, baby.”
I melt at him calling me baby. I also melt at the concerned glow in his eyes, the tender way he’s touching me just beneath my chin. For a breathless moment I forget that we’re surrounded by all sorts of people, in a crowded restaurant, spending our last night together before he leaves me forever.
But then I remember where I am. The sound of people talking, glasses clinking, music playing in the background. We’re sitting at a table, right next to each other versus across, one of those obnoxious couples who can’t stand it if they’re not within reach of each other. The sort of couple Evie and I make fun of on a constant basis.
I’ve turned into that couple, and I don’t mind one bit.
“I hate that you’re leaving,” I tell him, my voice full of anguish, my throat growing tight. “Tell me I’m being ridiculous.”
He brushes the hair away from my forehead, his expression sad. “You’re not ridiculous. I hate that I’m leaving too, but I have to go.”
“I know you have to go. You have a whole other life in San Francisco, and this—moment we’re sharing is just a blip on your path.” Now my chest aches, and I swear I’m minutes away from bursting into full-blown sobs.
“You’re not just a blip on my path.” He grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “You’re more than that.”