Fuck, she makes a cute me. She’s trying so hard to sell casual, but it’s not in her nature.
It’s so obvious she’s trying.
That she’s desperate for details.
Not that I blame her.
“Close.” I sink my teeth into the strawberry. Focus on the sweetness of the fruit. The richness of the chocolate. “But I don’t bait over my lack of self-control.”
She presses her legs together. Leans toward the table. Places her hands on the wood. “What?”
“You don’t know?”
Her brow furrows with concentration. “You like to be ridiculous.”
I shrug like I don’t try.
“You want people to think you don’t care about anything.”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Why?” I finish the rest of my strawberry. It’s good—really fucking good—but I’d still rather taste her.
“Yeah.” Her eyes fix on mine. “Why do you want everyone to believe you’re ridiculous?”
“Why do you want to lose your inhibitions?”
“You need me to explain that?”
“Yeah.” No, it’s obvious she’s wound tighter than a fishing line. But I need to keep this about her. Me helping her, sure. But still her. “Why not take a shot or two?”
“You know why.” Her lips purse. The interest in her eyes turns to frustration.
My stomach churns. I hate it. I hate her joy turning to pain.
“Oliver… and I… well, I guess you could say I haven’t been very good at moderation.”
“When have you ever been immoderate?”
“In the past.”
No fucking way. I don’t believe that. Even if it’s the kind of non-answer that suggests she’s hiding something. I shake my head. “If anything, I should ask you to teach me a few lessons about self-control.”
Her brow furrows. With concentration. “I can try.” She wraps her fingers around the cold brew. “But I don’t think you should take my advice.”
“Why?”
“It’s… personal.” Her eyes go to the milky coffee. She takes a long sip. Swallows hard. “Maybe… I guess that’s part of this. I wish I was free enough to just say. I wish I was free enough to have a few drinks and not worry I won’t be able to stop. I wish it didn’t feel like so much.”
“What didn’t?”
“I, uh…” Her eyes meet mine for a second. Then they’re on the table.
“It’s a secret?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to tell anyone. They act different. Look at me differently.”
“Differently how?”
“Less like… I like the way you look at me. Even with the whole… Oliver issue. You… we’re friends, yeah?”
That’s a fair enough assessment. “We are.”
“You want… well, for the sake of argument, let’s say I believe that you’re nothing but Mr. Party Boy.”
“Let’s.”
“You are showing me a good time. And this… it’s not the most conventional lesson, but it’s helping.”
“Really?” I arch a brow. I do want to help her, but she doesn’t seem any more relaxed than she did an hour ago.
She doesn’t seem freer.
Maybe she is.
Maybe I’m wound too tightly to assess her.
The Daisy I know isn’t this direct.
“Really.” Her lips curl into a half-smile. “You… what’s step two?”
Fuck, that would mean I have a plan. And I don’t.
How do I let loose?
I drink.
I fuck.
I focus on work.
That sounds like the opposite of letting loose, but it’s not. There’s a certain freedom that comes with sketching, drawing, perfecting a mock-up.
It’s like my conscious self disappears.
Something deeper takes over.
Not that I can admit that. Or suggest it. I don’t want to prove her right.
Not because I have to be right.
Because I don’t want her thinking I’m this interesting guy with layers she needs to unpeel.
I saw that happen to Ariel. She thought there was more to some guy than met the eye, that he was mean because he was hurt, that he was standoffish because he was heartbroken.
It doesn’t matter why they were assholes.
I don’t care how much shit they’d been through.
They didn’t treat her well. So they didn’t deserve her. Period. End of sentence.
“Usually, I’d drink. Or fuck,” I say. “But we’re waiting on the first one.”
She nods. “And you’re… You know, if you really were just about tattoos, parties, and women, you’d have a different response.”
I arch a brow.
“You wouldn’t insist you aren’t touching me.”
“Maybe I’m just not into you.” I completely fail to sell that possibility.
Her eyes turn down. For a second, she considers that possibility. Shrinks back, hurt. Then she shakes her head no way and returns my gaze. “You are.”
“You’re sure of yourself all of a sudden.”
“Maybe you’re not into me. But you do find me attractive.”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t exactly have discriminating criteria for your ahem friends.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s adorable. “So I fuck any hot woman who looks interested?”
“Do you not?”
Damn, this is a trap. Either I say of course I do and prove her point or say of course not and prove her point. “Only most of them.”
“You are attracted to me.”
There’s really no arguing that point. “I value my life.”
“Oliver wouldn’t.”
“He would.” Hell, protecting Daisy is probably the only thing he cares about.