Before I can question the depth of the mental anguish I may have caused her that day, our waitress finally decides to come take our orders. Considering I used sudden starvation as an excuse for coming here, I go full throttle and order a double cheeseburger platter. I complement it with a vanilla shake. Amber declines anything edible, sticking with water.
While waiting for the food, I study Amber closely. I watch the way, every few minutes, she nervously tucks a strand of hair behind her right ear. Never the left. I watch the way her eyes, caramel and waxy honey in color, curiously move around the diner when a new customer comes in. As vibrant in color as they are, they’re lifeless, a murky, barren filter to a past that holds her hostage. I watch the way her tongue darts out, wetting her lips in increments, starting with the bottom and then circling up to the top. I watch the way her expression, every so often, suddenly goes distant as though crumbling under the septic wreckage of what’s left of her universe.
As a mountain of emotions pile up in my heart, I watch her flip through the music selection on the jukebox. I’m half tempted to stretch out my arm and touch her face, but I know I can’t. She’s off-limits. My best friend’s soon-to-be-kind-of-already girl . . . the ultimate forbidden fruit. Still, I need another taste of her, the urge stronger than ever before. A pull so deep within my gut, I feel as if I’m about to lose my fucking mind. Instead, I continue to watch her, trying to relish the short time I have left.
I rest my forearms on the table, my need to learn anything about her heavy in my chest. “It’s your turn to tell me something about yourself.”
I capture her gaze, and though she smiles, her eyes cloud over in hesitation. “Like what?”
“Anything.” I shrug. “Everyone has a fetish—uh, I mean a . . . thing.”
She hikes up a brow. “A thing, huh?”
“Yeah.” I grin. “What’s your thing, Amber?”
“If I did have a thing, why would I tell you?”
“Because I wanna know.”
“Not good enough.”
“Because I really wanna know?”
“Nope.” She laughs, crossing her arms. “Not working.”
“No?” I slide across the booth, the king of all smirks tilting my mouth. “Do I need to cause a scene to get ya to give me something?”
“God, no!” she gasps, giggling.
“Mm, now you definitely have me convinced that I gotta make a big deal outta this.”
“I like Twizzlers,” she blurts, panic rising in her eyes as I get to the edge of the booth. “That’s my thing. Does that work for you?”
“Nah, momma. I already know you like Twizzlers.” I stand and rest my palms on the table, her cute nervousness awakening my cock. “I need deeper than Twizzlers.”
“Ryder, sit down,” she hastily whispers, curling a jumpy hand around my wrist. She gives it a tug, unsuccessfully moving me. “You’re impossible.”
“I’m curious,” I counter as I straighten and look around the diner. “Now give me something before my curiosity embarrasses the both of us.”
“This is nuts.” Her eyes dart between me and the busy restaurant. Still, she’s smiling, so I must be doing something right. “I’m boring. There’s really nothing to tell.”
“Excuse me, everyone,” I announce, grabbing the attention of several patrons. I’m not looking at her, but I hear Amber inhale a sharp breath. I also feel her tug on my wrist again. “I’m sorry for interrupting your dining experience, but I’m desperately trying to get this fine-looking peach to give me a little information about herself. But no matter how hard I try, and believe me, I’ve tried, she won’t cave to my request.”
“Peach?” Amber asks, a nervous smile twitching her lips as she glances at me, then the curious spectators, then back to me.
“Yeah.” I drop my voice, every syllable a slow burn. “A sweet . . . juicy . . . ripe peach.”
She swallows, her breath faltering. Yup, I’m definitely doing something fucking right.
“Whatever. Fine. This peach has a sick, slightly twisted, unhealthy crush on Jared Leto.”
“Jared’s not gonna do it.” I chuckle. “Dig deeper, Moretti.”
“I love thunderstorms,” she tries, getting closer but not quite there.
“Deeper.” I drag out the word. “I know you can do better.”
“I hate the smell of cheesecake. It nauseates me.”
I blink. “Cheesecake’s doing better?”
“Well? I really don’t know what you’re after, Ryder.” Confusion twists her beautiful features. “I’m not some kind of enigma.”
“Ah, but you are. You just don’t know it.” I shoot her a wink.
“It all depends,” an older woman speaks up, shoveling a bite of apple pie into her mouth. “What kind of information do you want her to tell you?”
I glance at the woman before crouching down in front of Amber. Resting an elbow on the table, I hold Amber’s gaze. Her eyes soften, a storm of curiosity thundering behind them as she searches my face.
“I want to know what makes her tick, what gets her going. I want to know what she dreams about, what she fears.” Still staring at her, I take a deep breath, hoping my tactics don’t scare her away. “I want to know her quirks, her weird little habits. I want to know what she looks like when she wakes up in the morning and who she’s thinking about when she goes to sleep. I want to know her favorite color, cereal, and band.” I pause, losing myself in everything that makes up this girl, this . . . gorgeous mystery. “I want to know anything she’s willing to tell me.”