I’ve never seen a woman more anxious to get rid of me. Usually, it’s the other way around. And I’m not proud of it, but that’s the game we play.
I routinely do some control damage and not promise anything to anyone, but shit happens, and women want to believe what they want to believe, and then we have a problem.
And they get mad at me, too.
But not like this.
She contains her fury, showing a lot of grace and wanting to move away from me as quickly as possible.
She wants to forget about me as fast as possible, too.
“You’re welcome,” I say.
She whips her eyes to me like my words have insulted her. But her eyes are soft in their anger.
It’s like she knows I won’t go away. As much as she knows that we’ll both fight hard for this to happen.
Her hand moves to the door handler, and she peels her eyes away from me when I speak.
“I’m glad I could help. Let me know if you need a ride these coming days. We can do this again,” I toss at her with a shred of humor in my voice, trying to get back in her good graces.
She flicks her eyes to me again.
“Are you my father now?” Ms. Prickly snaps.
I bite my lip to crush a smile.
“How old are you?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Not old enough to be your father,” I say, amused.
“You’re older than me.”
I nod.
“How old?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She shrugs.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met a man like you?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“So protective.”
“It has nothing to do with how old I am. I’ll be thirty eight next summer,” I’m quick to add, noticing the growing frown on her face. “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-eight.”
“Perfect.”
“Perfect for what?”
I’m getting nowhere.
But that’s a truism.
