She shrugs like this isn’t a big deal. She could do jury consulting, reading people before they say a word and figuring out which way they’re likely to lean in a case.
“Sweet or salty?”
“Salty. Otherwise, we would have already had five different conversations about Bluebell ice cream or something, but instead I know where you like to get your tacos. Are you going to ask me anything hard?”
She sounds so smug that I can’t resist throwing her off.
“Lights on or off?”
A beat of silence. “Excuse me?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Let’s see how good you really are. That’s not something you could possibly know.”
“On.” She sounds sure.
I make a buzzer sound. “No way. I definitely sleep with the lights off.”
She smacks me in the ribs, and I grab her hand. “What did you think I was talking about, Samantha?” I like saying her full name. It feels round and full, and the way my tongue has to push between my teeth for a split second to make the “th” sound has me thinking about . . .
Never mind.
“That isnotwhat you were talking about.” She tugs her hand, but not hard, and I don’t let go.
Instead, I give it a light squeeze. “We should talk about PDA for real. You’re right. I’m a PDA kind of guy, and my parents will expect to see some of that. It’ll help convince Presley too.” I let her go. “What’s your comfort level?”
“I’m not going to stop, drop, and roll with you on the dining room floor, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Not even if I’m on fire? That’s cold, Sami.”
“I’d yell at you to do it.”
“That’s something.”
“Probably throw water on you if there’s a pitcher nearby.”
“Feeling safer by the second.”
“So we’re going to have to look like we’re used to touching each other,” she says.
It takes me a second to switch back to serious again. “Ideally.”
“I guess that means holding hands.” She pauses for a second, like she’s thinking. “That’ll be fine.”
I hide a smile. She sounds like she’s doing me a big favor. I reach over and take her hand from her lap. “Fingers laced or no?” I lace mine between hers.
“Josh . . .”
“If we get there and try holding hands while we walk to the table and we can’t get it right, game’s over before it starts.”
She slides her fingers from mine but only to slide her hand back into mine, fingers not laced, but with all of hers curled around mine, her thumb curving around my thumb like they were carved to fit that way. “This will be fine.”
I don’t say anything for a bit, absorbing the way our palms feel against each other. It’s too bad this is a pretend situation. I have more chemistry with her than I’ve had with a woman in a long time.
Speaking of which . . . “If we’ve only been dating for a few weeks, shouldn’t we look more like we can’t stop touching each other?”
She clears her throat. “I’m reserved.”
I flash back to her storming that stage full-out and grin. “No, you aren’t. Just imagine you’re performing on stage.”
