Below that hairline, two baby-blues twinkled back at me with amusement. The barest hint of a five-o’clock-shadow graced sculpted cheeks and a dimpled chin. He wore a perfectly tailored suit that tapered to show his build without being flamboyant.
It was an Armani suit, too. Which brought to mind yet another old saw: When in Rome...
But what caught my eyes the most was the smile. The barest uptick at the corners of his thin lips, which parted just enough to offer a glimpse of the pearly-whites they curtained, confirmed the amusement I’d detected in those baby-blues.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he said, giving my wrists a squeeze and glancing down in a gesture meant to draw my attention.
I followed his look and discovered what he’d been trying to get at. I’d twisted my hands in his grip without realizing it so that I could hold onto his wrists as well. Now that I saw what I’d done, I couldn’t help but think about what I felt.
The sleeves of his jacket and the cuffs of his shirt had ridden up, allowing bare, skin-to-skin contact. His pulse thumped strong and steady beneath the softness of his wrists. My own heart chattered against my ribs, and I realized that if I could feel his pulse, he must feel mine, too.
I jerked my hands back out of his grip so hard I nearly lost my balance again. “Fine, I’m fine!”
“That’s good to hear,” he said. And then he stuffed those saving hands of his into his pockets, hooking his thumbs in a way that invited my eyes to explore that fine body of his further. Did he do that on purpose, or did he just like standing that way?
He didn’t leave. Why isn’t he leaving? Still, that coy, boyish grin of his wasn’t the worst thing I’d seen that day. And it wasn’t an oily smile like Dr. Aretino’s.
“You know, it’s rather unusual to find another American at an event like this,” Mr. Baby-Blues, as I began calling him in my mind, said.
I crossed my arms. “Who said I was an American? I could be Canadian.” I didn’t know why I flirted with him like that. Moments, heartbeats earlier I’d wanted nothing more than to give Dr. Aretino a quick hello and beat a hasty retreat back to my flat.
It was the eyes, I decided. Or rather the way they crinkled at me in amusement. And those saving hands of his. It took no effort at all to recall how warm those fingers felt against my bared wrists.
Then he squinted those eyes at me, appraising. That small smile of his curved a little tighter. Something very low in my stomach tightened in response to that smile. I resisted the involuntary response, choosing instead to bristle in indignation.
“No, you’re definitely not Canadian,” he said.
I flicked my head to the side, tossing a few blonde curls off my forehead. “You can’t know that.”
“Actually, I can,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially. The movement wafted more of that light, expensive cologne my way.
“Are you psychic, then? Because there’s no way you know anything aboot me, eh?” My lips, so used to a neutral expression, began a slow, creaking uptick into a smile.
My Canadian caricature drew a raised eyebrow in response, once more drawing my attention to the laughing twinkle behind his eyes. I liked the way they met mine so calmly and confidently. This was a man used to flirting with women. Not the sort of man I normally liked to flirt with (I was more into the quiet, artsy type of guy, or so I thought).
Yet flirt I did. And I liked it far too much. Definitely in a rut, I thought again. Were those baby blues of his my guiding lights, my twin lighthouses, out of that rut? A fleeting thought occurred that if I let him pull me out I might just land in a much deeper rut that I hadn’t yet seen.
I began wondering what else he was good at with women, if he was so good at flirting. The thoughts had to be some defense mechanism on my part, I figured. Some way to take my mind off the way things were. But I welcomed the distraction. It wasn’t like it was difficult or forced. Returning that smile of his felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He shook his head, that soft, black hair of his bouncing so gently and tantalizingly that my hands curled into fists against my waist. I’d never before experienced the urge to run my fingers through a stranger’s hair, but I definitely experienced it then.
That urge, and others.
“No,” he said, “Definitely American. Midwest I’d bet, were I a betting man. Wisconsin?”
I tut-tutted him. Perhaps a little too enthusiastically. He’d gotten the state wrong, but the general area correct. I found myself wanting to know more about Mr. Baby-Blues.
“It’s a good thing you aren’t a betting man, because you would have lost. Guess again.”
This time both eyebrows ticked upward in the barest display of surprise. I guess Baby-Blues wasn’t used to being wrong. Something about being the one to foil him tickled my own sense of amusement, and my smile grew, the muscles in my cheeks twitching to accommodate the long-unknown expression.
“What do I get I get if I guess correctly?” Baby-Blues said, cocking his head slightly.
I shrugged. I hadn’t really been thinking that far ahead, instead enjoying some innocent flirting for once. “What do you want?”
Baby-Blues squinted briefly at a bearded bust of Constantine the Great that sat on a pedestal a few feet to my right, examining the marbled curls of his beard and his eternally opened eyes. “Your name.”
I wondered if he knew who the bust had been sculpted after.
“And I suppose I get yours if you miss the mark again?” I replied.
He nodded. “That sounds like a fair deal to me.” I got the impression that he found something about our little interaction refreshing. I wasn’t really sure why. Maybe some subtle, unconscious stress he’d put on the words fair deal.
Just who are you, Baby-Blues? I wondered. I began to get the feeling that there was more to this guy than a flirtatious smile, nice hair, and an expensive suit. I then found myself hoping he would lose our little game so that I could get a name out of him.
So I let my hands slide down to my hips and cocked my head to the side as though the answer to my origins lay somewhere on my body, perhaps on a badly concealed tag on my red dress, or a telling tattoo normally hidden (I have no tattoos, but I wondered if he had any hidden under that Armani of his).
Except Baby-Blues didn’t accept my unspoken invitation to let his baby blues range over my body for the answer. They stayed locked on my eyes in the most disconcerting way. It was about this point I noticed that the elevator car of my anxiety had crashed in some unused sub-basement of my psyche, the cool ball it normally left in my stomach completely absent.
“Missouri,” he said, “I’m going with either Springfield or St. Louis. Which is it?”
For a moment I could do nothing but keep my jaw from dropping open in shock. I bristled again, more at myself than at him. Because I had a decision: I could lie and say he was wrong again, getting his name. Or I could concede and give him his prize.
As I considered how much I valued my honesty and integrity a few more well-dressed Italian couples sauntered into the foyer, shooting glances at the tall American man who blocked their path and forced them to move forward towards the main hall in single-file.
“You know, the longer you pause, the more I know I’m right. So which is it, Springfield or St. Louis?”
My smile turned tight-lipped. He looked so smug and secure in his knowledge. I just had to get rid of that smugness. But I couldn’t let myself lie to do it.