The Gamble
Page 16
I pressed back into the corner, pulled the purse off my arm, Max took it from me, threw it over the table and it landed on his coat. I watched it sail then I watched it land.
“You just threw my purse,” I informed him.
“Yeah,” he replied then demanded, “Coat.”
I stared at him a second, deciding that fighting about taking off my coat and the fact that I’d rather he not sit by me but across from me would keep me from dinner. Therefore, still pressed into the corner, I shrugged off my coat. He took it and threw that too.
Obviously a gentleman.
“Max –”
He twisted, leaned toward me, put one forearm on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth and considering his sudden proximity, the sheer size of his frame, the effect of his clear, gray eyes on me and the fact I was pinned in a corner, I stopped talking.
“Tell me, Duchess, how does an American come to sound like you?”
I stared at him another second then murmured, “It’s a long story.”
He looked over his shoulder at the restaurant, turned back to me and noted, “This ain’t fast food.”
“That’s too bad, considering I’m hungry.”
“So, the American passport and the English accent?” he prompted, ignoring my comment.
“In England, they say I have an American accent,” I informed him.
“They’d be wrong.”
“Actually, they’re right.”
He shook his head. “You aren’t answering my question.”
I sighed then I said, “I’ve lived there for awhile.”
“How long?”
“Long enough, evidently, to pick up a hint of an accent.”
“A hint?”
“Yes.”
“More than a hint, babe.”
I shrugged, looked at the table and gave in. “If you say so.” Then I arranged the placemats and silverware, one for him, one for me, all the while I did this I tried not to think about how it felt, him calling me “babe”. Unfortunately, I failed not to think of this and decided it felt nice.
When I was done arranging the table for our dinner, he asked, “How old are you?”
My eyes shot to his and I told him, “That’s a rude question to ask a woman.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It just is.”
“You older than you look?”
“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.
“Should I guess?”
I felt my body get stiff and I declared, “Absolutely not.”
He gave me a grin and got closer. “Give me a ballpark figure.”
“Older than Becca, younger than your mother,” I told him.
His hand not dangling from the table came up and touched my shoulder. I looked down to see my shirt had again slid off. I rearranged it so it covered my shoulder, his hand fell away and then I glared at him.
“That’s quite a range,” he commented and I shrugged then he said, “You look thirty,” well, that was good, “you act ninety.”
I stiffened then leaned toward him. “I don’t act ninety.”
“Honey, it was possible, I’d think you were born two centuries ago.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re uptight.”
I leaned in closer and snapped, “I’m not uptight!”
He grinned again. “Totally uptight.”
“I’m not uptight,” I repeated.
“Don’t know what to make of you,” he said, his eyes moving down my torso to my lap and he finished with, “contradiction.”
“What does that mean?” I asked but I really shouldn’t have and I knew it.
His eyes came back to mine. “It means you look one way, you act another.”
I leaned in closer. “And what does that mean?”
He leaned in closer too and we were nearly nose to nose. “It means a woman who owns those jeans, those boots, that shirt, deep down, is not uptight.”
“That’s right, I’m not uptight,” I snapped and then jumped when two bottles of beer hit the table.
I looked up to see a waitress standing there, tray under her arm, white t-shirt, jeans, ash blonde hair in a ponytail, pretty mountain fresh face, no makeup.
“Hey Max,” she said.
“Hey Trudy,” Max replied.
“Hey,” she said to me then she smiled.
“Hi,” I replied, not smiling.
Her smile got bigger and without leaving menus she walked away.
I looked at the beer and Max, thankfully, moved away, grabbed both, put one in front of me and took a pull off his.
“Is that for me?” I asked and his eyes came to me around his beer bottle then he dropped his hand.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t order that.”
“I did.”
He did? When?
I decided not to ask and informed him, “I don’t drink lager.”
“What?”
I dipped my head to the beer. “I said, I don’t drink lager.”
“What do you drink?”
“Ale, bitter, stout.”
“So, you’re sayin’ you don’t drink American beer, you drink English beer.”
“There are lagers that aren’t American. Heineken. Stella. Beck’s. In fact,” I went on informatively, “I think lager was invented by the Germans. In fact, I think beer, on the whole, was invented by the Germans.” I didn’t actually know this for a fact, I was just guessing.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his head.
“What?”
He looked back at me. “Duchess, you can argue about anything.”
“No I can’t.”
“So, now you’re arguin’ about not arguing?”
I decided to be quiet.
Max twisted and shouted, “Trudy!”
Trudy turned from the table she was standing at, hands up, notepad in one, pencil in the other, table of tourists interrupted in mid-order and she shouted back, “What?”
“You got any ale?” Max asked and I shrunk into the booth.
“Ale?” Trudy asked back.
“Ale.”
“I think so, sure.”
“Get the Duchess here one, will you?” he called, dipping his head toward me.
Her eyes slid to me, she smiled and shouted, “Sure thing.”
At the same time I leaned forward and hissed, “Max!”
He turned back to me and asked, “What?”
“You just threw my purse,” I informed him.
“Yeah,” he replied then demanded, “Coat.”
I stared at him a second, deciding that fighting about taking off my coat and the fact that I’d rather he not sit by me but across from me would keep me from dinner. Therefore, still pressed into the corner, I shrugged off my coat. He took it and threw that too.
Obviously a gentleman.
“Max –”
He twisted, leaned toward me, put one forearm on the table, the other arm on the back of the booth and considering his sudden proximity, the sheer size of his frame, the effect of his clear, gray eyes on me and the fact I was pinned in a corner, I stopped talking.
“Tell me, Duchess, how does an American come to sound like you?”
I stared at him another second then murmured, “It’s a long story.”
He looked over his shoulder at the restaurant, turned back to me and noted, “This ain’t fast food.”
“That’s too bad, considering I’m hungry.”
“So, the American passport and the English accent?” he prompted, ignoring my comment.
“In England, they say I have an American accent,” I informed him.
“They’d be wrong.”
“Actually, they’re right.”
He shook his head. “You aren’t answering my question.”
I sighed then I said, “I’ve lived there for awhile.”
“How long?”
“Long enough, evidently, to pick up a hint of an accent.”
“A hint?”
“Yes.”
“More than a hint, babe.”
I shrugged, looked at the table and gave in. “If you say so.” Then I arranged the placemats and silverware, one for him, one for me, all the while I did this I tried not to think about how it felt, him calling me “babe”. Unfortunately, I failed not to think of this and decided it felt nice.
When I was done arranging the table for our dinner, he asked, “How old are you?”
My eyes shot to his and I told him, “That’s a rude question to ask a woman.”
“It is?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It just is.”
“You older than you look?”
“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.
“Should I guess?”
I felt my body get stiff and I declared, “Absolutely not.”
He gave me a grin and got closer. “Give me a ballpark figure.”
“Older than Becca, younger than your mother,” I told him.
His hand not dangling from the table came up and touched my shoulder. I looked down to see my shirt had again slid off. I rearranged it so it covered my shoulder, his hand fell away and then I glared at him.
“That’s quite a range,” he commented and I shrugged then he said, “You look thirty,” well, that was good, “you act ninety.”
I stiffened then leaned toward him. “I don’t act ninety.”
“Honey, it was possible, I’d think you were born two centuries ago.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means you’re uptight.”
I leaned in closer and snapped, “I’m not uptight!”
He grinned again. “Totally uptight.”
“I’m not uptight,” I repeated.
“Don’t know what to make of you,” he said, his eyes moving down my torso to my lap and he finished with, “contradiction.”
“What does that mean?” I asked but I really shouldn’t have and I knew it.
His eyes came back to mine. “It means you look one way, you act another.”
I leaned in closer. “And what does that mean?”
He leaned in closer too and we were nearly nose to nose. “It means a woman who owns those jeans, those boots, that shirt, deep down, is not uptight.”
“That’s right, I’m not uptight,” I snapped and then jumped when two bottles of beer hit the table.
I looked up to see a waitress standing there, tray under her arm, white t-shirt, jeans, ash blonde hair in a ponytail, pretty mountain fresh face, no makeup.
“Hey Max,” she said.
“Hey Trudy,” Max replied.
“Hey,” she said to me then she smiled.
“Hi,” I replied, not smiling.
Her smile got bigger and without leaving menus she walked away.
I looked at the beer and Max, thankfully, moved away, grabbed both, put one in front of me and took a pull off his.
“Is that for me?” I asked and his eyes came to me around his beer bottle then he dropped his hand.
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t order that.”
“I did.”
He did? When?
I decided not to ask and informed him, “I don’t drink lager.”
“What?”
I dipped my head to the beer. “I said, I don’t drink lager.”
“What do you drink?”
“Ale, bitter, stout.”
“So, you’re sayin’ you don’t drink American beer, you drink English beer.”
“There are lagers that aren’t American. Heineken. Stella. Beck’s. In fact,” I went on informatively, “I think lager was invented by the Germans. In fact, I think beer, on the whole, was invented by the Germans.” I didn’t actually know this for a fact, I was just guessing.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his head.
“What?”
He looked back at me. “Duchess, you can argue about anything.”
“No I can’t.”
“So, now you’re arguin’ about not arguing?”
I decided to be quiet.
Max twisted and shouted, “Trudy!”
Trudy turned from the table she was standing at, hands up, notepad in one, pencil in the other, table of tourists interrupted in mid-order and she shouted back, “What?”
“You got any ale?” Max asked and I shrunk into the booth.
“Ale?” Trudy asked back.
“Ale.”
“I think so, sure.”
“Get the Duchess here one, will you?” he called, dipping his head toward me.
Her eyes slid to me, she smiled and shouted, “Sure thing.”
At the same time I leaned forward and hissed, “Max!”
He turned back to me and asked, “What?”
