Page 115 of The Incredible Ordinary

Right now, I almost don’t care.

I’m closer to throwing caution to the wind than I’ve ever been. At least, I want to. I haven’t before, but I really want to.

I’m a careful rebel.

He pulls back and studies me, an alert look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have. But I couldn’t help myself.”

I lick my lips.

“Me neither,” I admit.

“Too much?”

“Not nearly enough.”

Barely enough.

I want to maul you.

I’m moving too fast for myself.

Somehow, he feels it. Somehow, he knows.

“Dinner,” he says.

We head for the restaurant, and he tells me about his day. The easy conversation is a stark contrast to the long looks he sends me. I feel his eyes on me. I hope he likes what he sees. It’s a new dimension to the foundation of our friendship.

Am I his type? Whatishis type?

We get to the restaurant, and I shrug off my coat.

He’s in a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually, exposing his tanned forearms, and a pair of dark blue pants thatlook like they’ve been tailored specifically to show off every inch of his lean frame.

I’m underdressed in my black jeans and black polo sweater, but when I look up and meet his gaze, my stomach swoops. He’s staring, and I can feel the intensity of that look in my bones.

“You look edible,” he says.

I bark out a laugh.

“First time anyone’s ever said that to me.” I sound breathless. I’m tempted to be embarrassed, but he, in turn,looksbreathless, so we’re on a level playing field.

The hostess leads us to our table, which is mostly hidden from view in a small nook that gives us privacy in an otherwise crowded restaurant.

We take our seats, and for all that it’s been easy to talk to him so far—easier than with anybody else in almost my whole life—my head is suddenly empty, and I don’t know what to say.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“Trying to decide whether I should make an ass out of myself by trying to flirt or make an ass out of myself by ruining the mood with my nerves.”

“I vote flirt.” He tilts his head. “But let’s get the nerves out of the way first. Why are you nervous?”

The waitress comes over, hands us the menus, and provides me with a much-needed moment to gather my thoughts. When she walks away, I meet Milán’s gaze again.

“I like you,” I say. “This is not about me freaking out or coming to my senses and brushing this off as a moment of insanity. It’s definitely not that.”

“What is it, then?”