Page 11 of How You See Me (You and Me Duology #2)

An authentic chuckle pops out of him, surprising us both, and I like it way too much.

“What do movies have to do with it?”

“Think about it. How many have you seen with horrific bathroom scenes?”

His fork drops to the plate. “You’re right.”

“I know.”

He grins, altering the temperature in the room. Something so tiny shouldn’t make me sweat, but holy funnel cake, I’m boiling. My hand twitches, needing to fan my flushed face.

“What else?” he asks, getting back to eating. Guess I'm the only one overheating in here.

“I’m afraid of heights but don’t mind skyscraper windows—so long as I’m inside and not on a balcony. You can get thrown off a balcony.”

“You can get thrown out of a window, too.”

“But my frame wouldn’t break the glass. I’d just bounce off. ”

His eyes drift over me before he checks himself. I don’t usually welcome that look from men. That hungry greed to explore and tame. It’s degrading, like I’m some unchartered territory needing to be conquered.

But coming from Hayes, it doesn’t make me want to shrink or disappear. In the words of Shania Twain, I feel like a woman. A beautiful, cherished, and protected woman.

“I think you watch too many horror movies,” Hayes says, bringing me back to our conversation.

“Maybe. Another one is the color yellow. I hate it.”

He taps the mustard-color serving dish on the counter. “Then, why do you have a whole set?”

“Nora got them for me. She enables my antiques addiction.” I wave a hand toward the living room. “All that came from her when her mom got divorced, so I didn’t have the heart to tell her the color makes me gag.”

“Do you still paint with it and eat yellow food even though you hate the color?”

“Yeah. I’m not that crazy.” I laugh, though I doubt it helps to convince him. Even I can hear the wicked undertones.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks, unfazed.

Maybe I’ve underestimated him.

“I like them all,” I answer, “but I always come back to cool tones—blues, purples, grays.”

“Hmm. Not what I would’ve guessed. ”

I watch him, loving how he’s talking and relaxing. It gives me hope that the sweet side I experienced in the hospital is still there under all that crustiness.

“Really?” I lean an elbow on the counter to face him. “What did you expect?”

He pauses chewing to meet my gaze. “Yellow.”

“You did not.” I nudge his arm without thinking. It’s solid, of course. And now my hand remembers how it felt to touch him.

“I did. It suits you.”

“Suits me? How?”

He shrugs. “It’s cheerful. Undeniably noticeable. I think it’s—”

His gaze locks on mine, and my heart stammers once again. “You think it’s what?”

“Beautiful.”

One word. But it lands me somewhere between wanting to swoon and needing to retreat. I stare at him, struggling to reconcile the distant, uptight side I’ve come to know since our dance with this rare tender side. The man has many layers, and I’m intrigued by them all.

“Is that your secret move to win over the ladies? Poetic compliments that stop a girl’s heart?”

“I don’t try to win over anyone.”

“That’s right. The women just come to you and puddle at your feet.” Sounds familiar , I think then toss it away. I search for lightness. “Like the swarm I stole you away from last year. ”

He ignores the jab, eyeing my plate. “You barely touched your food.”

“I don’t eat much.” And he’s been very distracting.

I watch him take our plates to the kitchen and start cleaning up. At least I’ve learned during this impromptu dinner that the upcoming week of 24/7 Hayes won’t be everything I expected, making this even more dangerous.

It would be best to remember that he’s only here to provide transportation, and I don’t have space in my life for dating.

But even if that wasn’t the case, men like Hayes—tried and tested warriors who could be on the cover of a How To Be A Man Magazine —can’t be trusted with my penetrable, mushy heart.

“I’d like to change before we go,” I say to stay on task. Separately, I remind myself, despite the lengthy togetherness we’ll experience soon. “And clean up the rest of my painting mess.”

He peeks at my easel and paint supplies strewn around underneath, chest heaving. Surely, he’s fighting to suppress another round of frustration courtesy of his travel mate. “How long?”

“A few minutes, I promise. Unless you’d rather wait and leave in the morning? Get some sleep and start fresh.”

“No. I’m already three days into my leave. I can’t waste any more.”

“Okay. I understand. Can I ask how long you planned to drive tonight? ”

“Six or seven hours.”

“Then what? Are we staying in hotels, the car, or tents?” That last one makes me nervous with all the creatures and bugs that could wander inside, and I wish we’d discussed this part of the plan before now.

“I have a converted van.”

“What does that mean? Like an RV?”

“Sort of. Think regular-sized van with no seats in the back. There’s a small counter with a toaster and microwave and a mattress. No air conditioning. Sorry.”

My throat goes dry again, but it isn’t fear taking hold this time. “One bed?”

“I plan to sleep in the front seat or outside.”

“That’s not fair. It’s your van and your trip.”

“You’re taking the mattress.”

“What about alternating?”

“You’re not sleeping outside.”

“Agreed, but I’ll fit in the front seat better than you.”

He scowls, not enjoying the cracks I’m chiseling into his set-in-stone plan. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Where?”

“The first stop.”

“I figured that, smarty pants. I meant, which city are we stopping in first?”

“Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.”

An unfiltered squeal tumbles out of me. He flinches, and I slap a hand over my mouth to prevent another one. But too much brewing excitement has me reaching for his arm. “Are we going to Dollywood tomorrow?”

“Maybe. I'm not—”

I don’t stick around for the rest of that potential backtracking. I’m already gone, racing down the hall like a kid on Christmas morning, giving him time to stew on the idea.