Page 56 of Hunt Me, Daddy

“Then I ask why they chose that story for me.”

“Not whether it is a trap?”

“All stories are traps if you’re lazy.”

His mouth curved with approval. Heat moved up the back of my neck, and I became immediately, viciously annoyed with myself.

“That is not the standard answer,” he said.

“I don’t give standard answers unless I’m being paid by the hour.”

“Are you always this direct?”

“No. Sometimes I’m worse.”

This time, he did smile. My stomach flipped unhelpfully. I looked toward the coffee table, mostly to break eye contact and remind my nervous system that it was not a democratic institution.

“You asked the wrong question,” I said.

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

He waited. That was the thing about him. He waited like he had all the time in the world and no particular need to take mine. It should have felt intrusive, that patience. It should have felt like pressure, but it didn’t. It felt like he already knew I would get there, and that he was not going to insult me by dragging me faster.

I hated how much I liked that.

“The question isn’t which story you follow,” I said finally. “The question is what you are willing to become part of by following it.”

For the first time, his expression changed in a way I could not immediately categorize. It wasn’t surprise. Recognition, maybe?

The word slid under my skin before I could stop it.

“You’ve had to make that distinction before,” he said.

It was not a question. My guard went up so fast it should have made noise.

“I’ve been doing this a long time.”

“You deflect with general experience when the answer is specific.”

I stared at him. He looked back at me calmly.

My first instinct was to cut him off at the knees.

My second was to ask how the hell he knew that.

My third was much worse. It was to answer him.

“That is a very confident statement to make to someone you just met,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Do you make a habit of it?”

“No.”

“Why make an exception?”