Right Guy, Wrong Word

by Jewel E. Ann

“You’re cute when you’re mad.” He taps the toe of my sneaker with his before sipping his coffee. I glare at him, unsure if I’m angry because he doesn’t like my book or because I’m attracted to him despite his terrible taste in books. “I’m not cute when I’m mad.” “Fine. Let’s go with fuckable again. You look fuckable when you’re mad.” I will not smile. Nope. There’s no way I’m taking the bait.

“Go home. I’m not impressed by … by anything about you.” “No? Then why are your cheeks so pink?” “They’re not.” I press my palms to my damp face. I glance up. Shit. Our gazes meet in the mirror. My eyes constrict into tiny slits at his reflection, and he always wears an expression like he’s ruminating about something I just said or did. “Anna, they’ve been pink since I removed my shirt halfway through climbing all the routes.” He shrugs. “Don’t be embarrassed. If you took off your shirt, I’d overheat too.”

When I meet his gaze, he wets his lips. “Come to the forest with me to forage for food together.” “You’re delusional.” “Then just pizza tonight. The place across the street from our building. Seven o’clock.” I know better. I really do. Yet, I find myself nodding. “No rubbing your scent on me.” He holds up his hands and takes a step backward. “I won’t touch you, but it’s not my fault if you’re rolling all over me by the night's end. You’ve already shown your hand. You like when we’re touching … rubbing … rolling is the next step.” “There’s a zero percent chance of that.” “I guess we’ll see.” He winks before disappearing around the corner.

Life is what happens outside the bound story. Life isn’t the letters on the page; it’s what inspires those words.