Chapter 12
Side by side, they left the club. She grew even more uncomfortable as they crossed the city, but tried not to let it show.
"Em, tell me something," Peter said, his drawl even more pronounced in the darkened car. "Why is it that every time I turn around, you're kissing one of my friends?"
"Huh?" she startled. How was she supposed to answer a question like that? "I don't know. I guess it's our way of saying 'hello' and 'goodbye'."
His lips tilted into a little sideways smile. "So, you're telling me all I have to do is say 'hello' or 'goodbye' and I can kiss you?" He wanted to chuckle, but couldn't. The moment was too delicate. But wouldn't Emille get a good laugh out of it if she could see her own deer-in-the-headlights expression? He could even hear her swallow before she responded to his question.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said primly. "You kiss me all the time Peter."
He was shaking his head before she could finish her response. "On the cheek. Because you friend-zoned me the moment we met."
Come again? but she didn't say a word - just pressed her foot deeper on the accelerator.
"Speed limit's thirty-five," he reminded her mildly. When she eased her speed back to a respectable pace, Peter silently thanked God that she'd chosen to take the street route to his house instead of the highway. He thanked Him for every slow mile, and every long red light at the end of every block between where they were and his apartment.
"Aren't you going to ask me how you friend-zoned me?" he asked.
"Are you drunk?" She sniffed the air closer to him.
"Stone cold sober," Peter replied. "Haven't had a drink in months." Mostly, that was due to the fact that Emille was no longer his fishing companion. He wasn't inspired to pick up a six pack if she wasn't going to have a beer with him.
Last week, Jack had joined him on the boat, toting a pack of his favorite brand, but Peter hadn't been in the mood, because Emille's efforts to develop a healthier lifestyle had affected his choices of what he was willing to put inside his body. He'd leaned out significantly since he'd started helping her plan her meals, and since he'd started going to the gym an extra two times a week, just so he could watch her work out. Ever since his teens, Peter had worked hard at forcing his body into something it naturally wasn’t. He was ectomorphic, but he'd sculpted and bulked his body into something bigger than it was naturally inclined to be. Yet, he'd never felt as comfortable in his own skin as he had been feeling lately.
Occasionally, he was still jealous of the size that the other guys were able to achieve in their muscles. But, Peter was forty, a good decade older than his friends. And being the most ripped of the group had done wonders for his self-confidence. Word had gotten around about how he'd carried Emille out of the restaurant. Though they hadn't said anything about the incident in front of her, there had been calls and ribbing. They all loved her, but at the time of the accident, Emille had been much heavier. The guys openly admitted that none of them would have been able to lift and carry her the way he had. Nate had blamed it on Peter's sheer determination to do the impossible. David blamed it on his fiendish workout schedule. Ryce was sure it was his affinity for cross fit - after all, cross fit athletes were beasts when it came to working out. Jack, the only one to have witnessed it explained it away as Peter's abiding love for Emille. According to him, if Peter hadn't loved Emille the way he did, there was no way he would have been able to get her off the floor, much less out of the restaurant. Love, he said, had made his actions possible.
At first, he'd brushed the explanation off. Lately, Peter was inclined to believe it.
"So," he prodded. "Aren't you even slightly curious as to why you can kiss all my friends on the lips, but you completely freak out if I so much as breathe on your cheek?"
"I'm curious as to what's gotten into you tonight. Did you have some bad fish or something?"
His lids lowered. "You should be more worried about what I want to get into," he said mildly.
Emille's mouth opened in a shocked gasp. "That does it! What the hell is your problem, Peter?"
He couldn't very well tell her, May kiss you? So, he said the next best thing. "Why are you still single, Em?"
She rolled her eyes at her side window. "Because I want to be."
"I don't think you're telling me the truth," he replied. "You're not the kind of woman who likes to be single. You like men too much." As he'd observed tonight.
Emille gasped, swinging her head to glare at him. "You didn't just say that."
"Keep your eyes on the road, darlin'." When she turned to look back at the road, grumbling about insulting men, he overrode her diatribe. "It's not an insult. You like the company of men, and men like your company. So why are you really single?"
Two could play this game. If he was going to force her to talk about uncomfortable things, she might as well make it really uncomfortable for him. "Well Peter," she said in a sweet Southern voice, "I'm really single because men - like the ones whose company I keep - don’t normally go for women like me."
"I'd go for a woman like you," he said softly.
"We've already gone over this. You go for the Gwyneth Pallys of this world."
Propping his elbow on the door, Peter seemed to give due consideration to Emille's reasoning. "I go for tall women." He cut a glance in her direction. "The taller the better."
"Tall and thin then. Gwyneth Pally."
"Tall and sexy," he corrected.
Frustrated, Emille released the steering wheel just long enough to throw her hands in the air. "There! That's the answer to my question. Tall and sexy. That obviously leaves me out."
His grin was crooked in more ways than one. "So," he said after they'd gone through another stoplight, "are you saying the only reason you're still single is because you don’t think I find you sexy?"
She was forced to stop at another light before she could think up an answer. Emille glared at the light. It was as if she'd hit every red one for the past six miles.
"You can't ignore a direct question."
"I'm sorry," she said, feigning preoccupation. "I wasn't paying attention."
Peter sat up straighter. Gently, he reached across the seat and turned her chin so that she faced him. "Emille Carter, are you still single because you think I don’t find you sexy?" She swallowed, and he felt the movement against his hand.
Her eyes darted left before she said, "My light's green."
He let her go.