He cocked his head slightly to one side, and gently ran a hand through his long blond hair, as though copying something he’d seen on a shampoo commercial. It was strange, a little awkward, and more than a little cute. “Your mother said something very similar.”

“What? About your poker stare?”

“Yes.”

“She should know. She cleans me out whenever we play.”

“I think I would like to try that.”

“Cleaning me out? You might wanna hit the brakes there, Bub. We’ve only just met.” Rose meant it as a snarky jab, but couldn’t help but give the guy a warm grin.

He returned it, but only seemed to smile because she did. Rose suspected he hadn’t understood a word she’d said. They spoke the same language, but then again, so had Chaucer and 50 Cent.

“You’ll have to excuse my small talk,” she told him. “I write snark for a living. It’s hard to shake it sometimes.”

“Snark?”

“Yeah. You know, snide remarks. Sarcasm. I snark at people who I think are asking for it. For blogs and stuff.”

“I see. Am I asking for it?”

“I haven’t decided. Something’s telling me it might be lost on you, Benjamin.”

“Bellamy.”

“That’s what I said.” She flicked him a wink. He returned it. Again, the awkwardness returned. The guy just flat-out had no guile, no social skills, or no social skills that she was used to, anyway. “Where exactly are you from?” she asked.

“Texas.”

“Where in Texas?”

“El Paso. But I spent some time in England, in case you’re wondering why my manners don’t quite…what’s the word…jive?”

“Ah, that explains it. Kind of.” But it didn’t. Not remotely. Rose had met plenty of Brits, and they were neither awkward to be around nor out of touch with the way Americans spoke. It was as if this guy came from a Texas of another age or a Great Britain of another time. She had to admit…she was intrigued. And more than a little puzzled about what he was doing here with her mom.

***

The three of them hardly spoke until they reached the park’s ice cream vendor just past the skateboarding area, where Blythe licked her lips at the sight of a double scoop of strawberry and rum-raisin in a cone.

“Rose? Bellamy? Don’t tell me you’re not tempted.”

“Try and stop me,” replied Rose. Her mother always loved this ice cream stand. “You know what I like.”

“Uh-huh. Bellamy?”

“Yes, please.”

“What flavors do you want?”

He peered at the selection with his hands clasped behind his back, then shrugged. “I’ll have whatever Rose is having.”

“Living life on the edge?” Rose dampened down the sarcasm, remembering it was lost on him, but he was such an easy target.