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“Talitha, do I look like I smoke weed?”
“Shit I don’t know.” She laughed. “You didn’t specify.”
Holding up the cigar, I twirled it in my hand. “This is theonlything I fill my lungs with and it’s not often that I do so.”
“Whatever your vice is.” She held her hand up.
“That’s yours.” I nodded toward the glass of red wine.
“Thank you.” She scooped it up and took a sip. Leaning with her back to the railing, her eyes roamed my body for a fewseconds before settling back on my face. “Did your ex live here with you?”
While she stood there admiring me, I took my time cutting the tip of my cigar and firing it up. “She spent the night here a few times a week. She had her own spot and stayed there for the most part.”
“Cute.” She nodded.
“What’s cute about it?”
“Oh nothing,” she lied and took another sip.
The tan Milano de Rougesports coat she wore for dinner had been removed and was laying on the sofa inside. Her white button up was tucked in her jeans during dinner but had somehow made its way out. She had gotten extremely comfortable while I was sitting here with my heart thundering in my chest. I knew what she wanted and was waiting on her to make the first move.
Hell, I wanted it just as much as she did, but I was leaving it all up to her. I didn’t need her shutting down on my ass again.
“Wanna hear something funny?”
Taking a pull from the lit cigar, I leaned back in the chair and crossed my leg. “What is it?”
“Gema thinks you like me.”
“What made her draw that conclusion?”
“She said she could tell by the way you look at me.”
“And what did you say in response?”
“I waved her off,” she tittered. “Old people read into everything.”
Looking at the lit end of my cigar, I asked, “What if she wasn’t reading into it?”
“You like me?”
“A little bit,” I verified.
“Why?”
“Because you have this wall up. And apparently, I’m attracted to complicated women.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s what I’ve been told.”
“I like you too,” she finally established what I already knew. “I didn’t want to like you, but I do. Liking you means putting myself out there. I don’t do that. I’m not that type of woman.”
“What type of woman is that?”
“The one that gets so tangled up in a man that she loses herself. I’m the type of woman who gets up and goes to work to make a difference in someone’s life. I don’t need saving, rescuing, or whatever. I keep my head down and handle my business. In short term, I’m not the damsel in distress type of woman.”
“You are,” I alleged. “You have a fear of being seen that way, but you are everything that you just swore you wasn’t.”