Broken. Megan Hart

ask him if he wants some but he just shakes his head and says he doesn’t eat shellfish. That’s fine, because he doesn’t mind if I nibble at his dinner. I mean, maybe I should have asked before sneaking a bite, but then he says don’t worry, go ahead and finish it if I want, he’s done.

      Well, hey, I’m not about to pass that up. I don’t make much working in the coffee shop and college is a real bitch to pay for. Linguine beats the hell out of ramen noodles.

      “It’s nice to see a girl who eats.” Joe settles back with his glass of wine, watching me, and I pause.

      I figure he’s making fun of me, maybe, because I know I could lose a few pounds. I straighten my back to make sure there aren’t any rolls showing over my belt and I push my boobs forward. When the waiter asks if we want any dessert, I’m dying to dive into a piece of chocolate lava cake, but I say no, thanks.

      “You’re sure?” Joe lifts one perfect, golden eyebrow, and my whole body feels gooey and warm. He’s so cute. “We could share a piece.”

      Sharing’s okay, so I tell him that’s great. His grin is like looking at sunshine. I melt a little more. God, he’s hot. And sweet. And a really, really good listener. He’s the nicest guy I’ve been out with in, like, forever.

      The waiter brings our chocolate cake and two forks, but Joe pushes the plate more toward me. I love that he’s a gentleman, letting me take the first bite. All of the bites, actually.

      He watches me eat. His eyes follow the fork from the plate to my mouth and stay there. I lick my lips, afraid I’ve smeared them with chocolate. My heart’s beating a little faster with all the attention he’s paying me, and I’m not sure what to think of it. He’s looking at my lips as if he might want to eat them instead of the cake. My thighs quiver at the thought.

      I wouldn’t mind if Joe wanted to lick away the chocolate from my lips. That’d be super hot. It’s been a long time since a guy kissed me, nearly a month. I made out with someone from my Comm Media class down at the Hardware Bar, but that’s all. He wanted more, and, like, I’m cool with the whole friend with benefits thing. It’s just that you’ve got to be friends first, and I barely knew him.

      By now I’ve finished all the cake and Joe’s only licked up the whipped cream. He eats the strawberry, too. It’s my turn to watch his mouth work. I watch the way his tongue licks the cream off the berry’s pointed end and I imagine he’s licking me, instead. This time, my clit pulses and I shiver.

      “Are you ready to go?”

      I’m not. I’d really like to sit here with Joe for a few more hours. I don’t want our date to be over, not when I’m having such a good time.

      It’s not like I can say that, right? I nod. “If you want.”

      I still hope he’ll say, “let’s have another drink, Brandy, ’cuz I’m having so much fun I don’t want to leave.” But, of course, a smooth guy like Joe doesn’t say stuff like that. He might look as yummy as a movie star, but this isn’t the movies.

      He helps me with my jacket and when his hands stroke my shoulders, I want to throw myself into his arms and attack his mouth, right there. I hold off, though, because this is a real classy place, and besides, I don’t want Joe to think I’m easy.

      He listens to me talk some more on the drive back to my place. I’ve never been with a guy who listens like Joe does, and I know he’s really paying attention because every so often he makes a little noise and nods his head. I give him directions to my apartment building. When we pull up in front, I look up to see if the lights are on in the front room. It’s dark, which means my roommate isn’t home yet. I really, really, really don’t want this night to end. It’s been so perfect, from the way he held the door for me to the way he picked up the tab without a second thought.

      So I invite Joe inside.

      “Sure,” Joe says. “That sounds nice.”

      For a second I’m sure he’s going to say no. His face has that look guys get when they’re trying hard to think of an excuse to turn you down. But then he smiles at me again, until I’m like, a puddle of goo on the front seat of his car.

      Will he think it’s nice when I jump on top of him and shag him silly? That’s what I wonder when I lead him inside and show him where to hang up his coat. I hang mine, too, and I’m turning to ask him if he wants something to drink when the sight of him dries up every single word I meant to say.

      He’s taken off his suit jacket. His shirt is pink. Damn, that is hott with two freaking t’s. Dark pink oxford shirt with a deep maroon tie. His pants and jacket are charcoal grey with the hottest pin stripes I hadn’t noticed in the restaurant’s dim lighting. He’s watching me gape like the biggest dork ever as he tugs his tie loose from his throat and unbuttons the top button of his shirt, and so I recover real fast and pretend I had something in my throat to clear it.

      “Want something to drink?” I squeak and my cheeks like, catch totally on fire. Joe doesn’t seem to really notice, or maybe he’s such a gentleman he pretends he doesn’t. Either way, his smile fills me up like someone pumped me full of helium. I want to float up to the ceiling from that smile.

      “Just water.”

      I’ve seen him drink coffee, sometimes tea, a glass of wine with dinner. Now, water. I don’t have any bottled water and I’m a little ashamed, but he says tap water’s fine, and can he have some ice?

      I have ice. I have some limes and lemons, too. They’ve been in the fridge for, like, ever, and they’re actually my roommate Susie’s but she won’t care if I use them. I slice them into quarters and Joe takes a slice of each for his glass. I do, too. It tastes good, but then I get a full-on taste of lemon and it makes my mouth twist.

      Joe laughs. “Sour?”

      I realize he’s moved pretty close to me. He smells as good as he looks, which I’ve already noticed is pretty damn delicious. In fact, he smells better. It’s not Drakkar or Polo but something else, I’m not really sure what. So I ask him.

      Joe laughs again and puts his glass on the counter. He leans against it, one foot crossed over the other. Even his shoes are pretty and I realize I’ve never asked him what he does. I don’t really know anything about him, even though I’ve told him plenty about me.