Too Late

The hostess smiles at us, grabbing two menus. "Table for two?"

"Yes, please," Carter says. "Banana's like boiled water in Reno," he adds with a straight face. I bust out laughing. The hostess shoots us both a confused look, then shakes her head. "Follow me."

Carter reaches down and grabs my hand, pulling me forward. He doesn't just grab my hand to lead me to our seat; he intertwines his fingers with mine and smiles at me, causing my heart to pound like a kick drum. Oh, God, this is wrong, wrong, wrong. When we reach our table and he pulls his hand from mine to take his seat, it literally makes my heart ache, having to let go of his hand. We both scoot into the booth and rest our elbows on the table between us. I look down at his hands.... at the one that just held mine. There's nothing particularly special about his hand. It's odd how the slightest touch from that simple hand can cause such a disturbance inside of me. It's just a hand. What the hell is so special about his hand? "What?" he says. The sound of his voice pulls me out of my trance and I look up at him. His head is tilted to the side and his eyes are focused on mine. Hard. Like he's attempting to read my mind. "What?" I ask him in return, feigning ignorance. He leans back into the booth and folds his arms across his chest. "I was just wondering what you were thinking. You were looking at my hands like you wanted to cut them off." I didn't realize my expression was a dead giveaway. I can feel the heat rise to my cheeks, but I refuse to look embarrassed. I lean back in my booth and scoot toward the wall, so that I'm not sitting directly in front of him. I prop my feet up in the seat next to him and cross my ankles, getting comfortable. "I was just thinking," I reply. He props his feet up next to me, crossing them at the ankles as well. I can't tell if he's just getting comfortable, or if he's mimicking me. "I know you were just thinking. I want to know what you were thinking." "Are you always this nosey?" He smiles. "When it comes to the safety of my limbs...yes." "Well, I wasn't thinking I wanted to cut off your hands, if that makes you feel better." He keeps his eyes locked on mine, his head resting casually against the booth. "Tell me," he says again. "You're pushy," I say, picking up the menu. I prop it up on the table in front of me, blocking the sight of him. His piercing dark eyes are hard to say no to, so I just choose not to look at him at all. His fingers slide over the top of the menu and he pulls it down, eyeing me, still waiting for an answer. I drop the menu and sigh. "Internal thoughts are internal for a reason, Carter." He narrows his eyes and leans forward in the booth. "Should I not have held your hand? Did that piss you off?" The sensually smooth sound of his voice alone tickles the inside of my stomach like a feather but I try and convince myself that I'm just hungry. "It didn't piss me off," I say, still skirting around his demand for answers. The problem I had with him holding my hand was that I liked it. A lot. But I'm not telling him that. I pull my gaze from his and pick the menu up again. I don't want to see his reaction. I read the selections on the menu for a while, very aware of the silence poised between us. The fact that he isn't saying anything is driving me crazy. I can feel him staring; silently challenging me to look at him. "Can I get a pizza?" I ask, breaking the silence and changing the subject. "Get whatever you want," he says, finally picking up his own menu. "Pepperoni and onions." I drop my menu back on the table. "And water's fine. I'm going to the restroom." I move to slide out, but his feet are still propped up in the booth next to me, blocking my exit. I'm forced to look up at him, but he's still staring down at his menu. He slowly pulls one foot off the booth, then the other; a small smile playing on his lips the whole time. I scoot out of the booth and head to the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I press my back to the door and close my eyes, letting out a deep, pent-up sigh. Damn him. Damn him for sitting by me in class. Damn him for showing up at my house. Damn him for being involved with Asa. Damn him for bringing me here. Damn him for holding my hand. Damn him for being so nice. Damn him for being everything I wish Asa was, and everything I wish I could have. I wash my hands no less than ten times, but I can still feel him. I can still feel his fingers laced with mine...the rough skin of his palm pressed against my hand...the way he pulled me behind him, guiding me through the restaurant...the tingle on my palm that won't go away, no matter how hard I scrub. I squirt more soap into my hands and wash them for the eleventh time, then work up the nerve to finally exit the bathroom and take a seat back in the booth.

"I figured you'd want some caffeine," Carter says, pointing to the soda in front of me. He figured right.