“But the party wasn’t?”
“It’s different.”
He leaned into her and nudged her toward a coffee shop they were drawing up on. When they stepped inside, warm air bit into the half of his face he could feel, stinging until his skin adjusted to the temperature.
Susan didn’t unfold, but she did follow him to the counter.
The girl behind the register—Meg, according to her nametag—glanced at him with a frown, then turned her attention to the register and refused to make eye contact. “What can I get you?” she asked.
On a different night, he’d ask if the scars turned her off or if she was simply less than friendly. His mood would determine if he kept the question to himself or shared it with her. Tonight, Susan’s company was too compelling to let him be distracted. “A large coffee, and a small non-fat latte, double shot of sugar-free vanilla.”
“How—” Susan snapped her mouth shut when he looked at her.
The cashier took his money and handed over their drinks a moment later, and they found a table near the front window. He slid the latte to Susan. “Lucky guess,” he said.
“Thank you.” She seemed content to hide behind the cup or her hand or whatever was convenient.
He waited until she put her drink down, then reached over to pin her wrists to the table. He was grateful for the layers of clothing that kept him from touching bare skin. He was also definitely losing his shit if naked wrists were a temptation. “People are always going to have an opinion about you. Pumpkin Spice, over there?” He nodded at Meg. “Odds are as good that my face puts her on edge as they are that she’ll forget about us the moment we walk out the door.”
“I don’t—”
“Hang on.” He gave one of Susan’s arms a gentle squeeze. “What she thinks? It’s not your responsibility. What a random stranger at The Gateway wants to believe? That’s not up to you. You said you want to teach dance more than anything. That’s up to you.”
She pulled one hand from his grasp, to take a drink, but didn’t extract the other. “Which is all all pretty and simple in theory. It doesn’t work that way in practice. Not all of us can shut off caring what other people think about us. We can’t all be you.”
Her words hurt more than he wanted. Ironic, given the conversation. “Is that what you see in me? Someone who doesn’t care?”
“No. Maybe. It’s like sometimes I think you do, but others… Don’t listen to me. I don’t know you.”
Let’s change that. He stashed the errant thought. “I care about what people think. And not only Mercy. Or you.” Shut up. “But I learned a long time ago that, if I don’t think my opinion matters, no one else will.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. Great. Now he’d irritated her. “I hear it, but I don’t know how to do that.” She didn’t sound annoyed. She bobbed her head back and forth. It was subtle, but it matched the beat spilling from the speakers.
He stood and offered his hand. “May I have this dance?”
She stared at him, bottom lip caught between her teeth. The silence dragged out between them. He didn’t know why he was doing this again, after her reaction last time. A tiny voice whispered this was about more than pushing her boundaries; it was personal.
He refused to listen. “No one else is in here but us and Pumpkin Spice.” He kept his voice low, so only Susan would hear him.
The corners of her mouth twitched up, but she didn’t show any other sign of movement.
*
Susan wasn’t going to make the same mistake she did last time. Swallowing the apprehension sprinting through her, she took Andrew’s hand and let him pull her to her feet. When he twirled her, she gave an embarrassed laugh. When he pulled her close, her breath caught. She kick-started her heart and forced herself to stay calm, despite the memory of his kiss lingering on her lips. This would be easier if she focused on the fact that he couldn’t keep a beat.
She looked at the counter, then ducked her head at the cashier’s expression. “She’s scowling.”
“Who? Pumpkin Spice?” Andrew kept going in what Susan thought might be a weak waltz. Or a two-step. Or a slow-version of a dance-club spaz-out.
If Susan kept her attention on the way his hands felt, one gripping hers and the other at her waist, it was easier to block the urge to hide. “Why are you calling her that?”
“I assume Meg is short for Nutmeg. Makes sense, doesn’t it? She works in a coffee shop. She looks like Bratty Spice. One plus one equals Pumpkin.”
Susan buried her face in his shoulder. “You’re sure it’s not because you’ve got a food fetish?” She should be hesitating to ask the question, but it felt natural.
“I’ve fetishized a lot of things in my life, but food’s not one of them.” He whirled them, then pulled her close again.
She wanted to ask if she could be one of them.