Page 26 of The Frog Prince
Tom places the order, assures me I’ll like what he’s selected, and lets the pissed-off waiter escape.
“You were a little argumentative, weren’t you?” Tom says. “You have spunk. Fire. I like that.”
“I don’t think I was that unreasonable. It took him an hour to wait on us.”
“But we’re in no hurry. We’re having fun.”
I suddenly think that Tom and I are from two different galaxies, traveling through space at almost the same speed and time. “Did I embarrass you?”
“You can’t embarrass me.”
I almost believe that.
“I’m confident,” he adds. “You can probably tell.’
I can.
“But women like confident men.” Tom shakes his martini glass, dislodging the olives. “You like confident men.”
Again I’m so fascinated I can hardly speak. I have no idea where he’s going with this, and I’m dying to know what he’ll say next.
“You do,” he says, leaning across yet another table, creating yet more intimacy. “You. Like. Me.”
“I do?” I say it like a question, I mean it like a question, and yet he takes it as a statement of fact.
“You do. Because women can’t resist confident men. It’s the number one thing that turns them on.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Maybe not up here”—and he taps his forehead—“but here,” and now he taps his chest, where I assume he thinks the heart should be. As he’s tapping his chest, I notice the glint of a blue stone set in a big gold ring on his finger. It looks like a ring from his alma mater.
“You do here,” he adds, tapping his chest again. “You know it when you’ve found someone who can handle the situations life throws at you, who isn’t afraid to step up to the plate, who will always look out for you and put your needs first.”
This is getting really good. I don’t know if it’s the martini talking or he honestly believes this stuff, but I’m hanging on every word.
“I like you, Holly.”
I’m trying to keep a sober expression. “Thank you.”
“I mean it. I. Like. You.” He picks up an olive, sucks it dry, chews it. “And I like the vibe we’ve got going.”
There’s no vibe. I feel nothing but a desperate desire to escape, and yet I feel like a deer caught in headlights—I can’t make myself move.
Tom is popping another olive into his mouth. “I knew when I met you there could be something. I felt the spark, didn’t you?”
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. He’s already continuing the conversation alone. I admire the energy he brings to the table.
“You’re not like most women I meet. There’s more to you. There’s”—and his hand waves. in broad circles—“a lot to you. Inside. You’re deep. If you know what I mean.”
“That’s really nice, Tom, but—”
“No buts.” He’s leaning on the table, the fire of gin in his eyes. “I’m a take-no-prisoners guy. I won’t accept anything less than unconditional surrender.”
The waiter—still in a snit—appears with our appetizers. I’m amazed they need sixty minutes to take our order and only five to prepare it.
Tom’s reaching for a miniature white corn tamale. “Tell me about your meeting yesterday. What’s going on?”
In my favorite Greek myths and fairy tales, the heroes were all the strong, silent type. Unfortunately, Tom seems to be neither. But I can’t ignore his attempt at sincerity. “We’ve an event that’s going south.”