“Like pulling teeth,” he said, brushing my hair behind my ear. “But I already knew that.”
“Oh did you, Mr. Sure-of-yourself,” I tried glaring into his smug face—a futile effort—“Then why were you so adamant I confess myself to you.”
“It’s nice to hear, don’t you think?”
Yet another understatement.
“So what’s the plan for today?” I asked, side-stepping around the moment for lack of know-how. I wasn’t exactly used to a man staring into my eyes with his body pressed so close to mine I could feel the heat coming from it, waiting expectantly.
He purposefully eyed his Bronco. “I thought I’d bring a little Santa Cruz to you.”
“Surfing, huh?” I said, eyeing the two boards on the roof.
“Surfing indeed. Sound good to you?”
“Absolutely,” I said, focusing harder on the boards in hopes he wouldn’t detect the nervousness I was chewing out on my lip. I was Santa Cruz born and bred, and had surfed a total of . . . never. I rested my hand against the Bronco to steady myself—it didn’t help. Watching Jaws at the age of five at my cousin’s house had done a number on my fearlessness when it came to the ocean from there on.
“Can’t wait.” I eyed the boards nervously as I made my way to where he was holding the passenger door open for me.
His eyebrows danced. “Can’t wait to see you in a swimsuit,” he said, offering his hand to me.
“If you think I’m getting into that water without being bubble-wrapped in six inches of insulation, you’re delusional.” I said, taking his hand as I hoisted up into the cab.
He blew through his mouth. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not bad if you’re immune to temperature,” I hollered through the window after he shut the door behind me. He’d left the car running and had the heat turned on high.
Coming around the driver’s side, he climbed into his seat and positioned the driver’s side vents in my direction. “Are you warm enough?”
“Barely,” I admitted, glancing down at my bare legs.
He chuckled and cranked the heater as high as it would go. “If this doesn’t work, I can think of a few other ways to warm you up.” I heard the sly smile in his voice even though I couldn’t make myself look at him.
“Wow, you don’t have anything better than that?” I said, trying to sound unimpressed. “I expected more from you than one of the oldest, most worn-out male innuendos in the book.”
He reached for something in the backseat, dropping what he’d retrieved into my lap. He shrugged. “A blanket might help. I’ve got an extra pair of jeans if you’d like.” He smiled at me with exaggerated innocence.
I tucked the blanket around my legs. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m not even finished yet,” he said, grabbing a cardboard cup resting on the dashboard and handed it to me. “A steaming cup of coffee should aid in warming you up. What was it again you were suggesting about innuendos?”
I sighed with exaggeration. “I forfeit this one to you, only because I don’t want to spend the whole morning in some battle of the wits with you. Although I still reserve the right to believe you’re impossible,” I said, reaching for the cup.
“Impossibly charming, you mean?”
I rolled my eyes and changed the subject, knowing we could go another twelve rounds if I didn’t. “This is exactly what I needed,” I said, taking a long sip and feeling it’s warmth spread through me. “You’re completely forgiven for everything now.”
I noticed the print-out label on the side of the cup; Triple Americano, plain. I was surprised, yet again, by how well he seemed to know me. Most people ordered lattes, mochas, or drip coffees; it was only the hard-core, caffeine junkie that drank a triple Americano straight-up.
“A cup of coffee?” he mocked. “If I would have known it’s the fix-all with you, I would have rented a latte stand to follow us around from the first night we met.”
“That would have made things too easy,” I said lightly.
“Heaven forbid.”
“I’ve got something for you,” I said, taking another sip.
“You do?”
“Don’t get too excited. I made it,” I warned, reaching into my pocket.
“You made me something?” he asked, turning in his seat to face me. “Was this before or after you were planning on hating me for all time because you jumped to conclusions?”
“After,” I said matter-of-factly. “But if you call a girl Don Juan would raise from the grave for, showing up at my door after midnight looking for you a jump, so be it. I call it a logical sequence of assumptions.”
“So we agree to disagree,” he said, waving his hand. “Back to important things. What did you make me?”
“I help out a few times a week at a disadvantaged youth program in town,” I explained, pulling the braided leather bracelet from my pocket. “The project we worked on yesterday was making a protector bracelet.”
He smiled when he reviewed the dark leather object. “And what is a protector bracelet?”
I fumbled with it in my hands. “We asked the kids to think of one person in their life they feel safe around—someone who protects them.” I shrugged, trying to look casual. “Since there was a short list of people that have protected me from something pretty big this week . . .” I felt silly admitting I’d made this juvenile gift for him, and was now asking him to wear it.