Nothing.

He’s watching me, his face stoic and unreadable. My heart is racing. I’m sweaty, but my mouth is dry. I look anywhere but at him. I would rather do the chicken dance naked in front of a full house at Carnegie Hall than be in this seat right now. I’m suddenly rethinking every life choice I’ve ever made that led me to this moment.

Abort. Abort. ABORT! Get out of there, Elizabeth!

“Oh, I thought jokes were supposed to be funny. My mistake,” Austin quips back as a devilish smirk spreads across his lips.

He’s funny. Who knew?

I’m stunned into momentary silence, but I can’t control the smile that creeps onto my face. I’m nearing a panic attack, but his relaxed, easy manner makes me believe there’s at least a small chance this won’t end in a flaming catastrophe.

His eyes take in the five-foot-two tangled mess in front of him, from the frizzy brown hair on top of my head down to the baggy jeans and sneakers on my feet. He’s trying to figure me out. Good luck, buddy. I’ve only ever managed to figure out what I’m not.

Not cute. Not tall. Not confident. Not brave. Not sexy. Not friendly.

Not normal.

“Touché. I guess comedy is in the ear of the beholder.” I shift in my chair, determined to avoid making eye contact. He’s so beautiful it’s hard to look directly at him. He’s the sun and I’m asking to get burned.

“I’m Austin Jacobs.” He reaches out his hand. It seems oddly formal.

My mind flashes back to Mr. Phillips patting my head. It’s hard to feel like a woman when everyone treats you like a child.

“I’m Elizabeth Wilde.” I reach my hand out. His hand engulfs mine, his fingers swallowing my palm entirely. His grip is gentle, but the visual is intimidating.

You know what they say about big hands?

I shake the thought out of my head. I can’t go there.

Yet.

“Nice to meet you,” I say before a stiff pause consumes us. Panic is rising in my stomach. My lunch isn’t too far behind. I don’t think that chicken parm is going to taste as good the second time around.

“Oh, sorry. Guess you’ll want your hand back now,” I mutter, finally releasing his hand. Mine is cold and somehow seems smaller, foreign. I’ve never understood the phrase ‘know it like the back of my hand.’ I don’t know my hands, couldn’t pick them out of a lineup if they were attached to my wrists. Who stares at the backs of their hands anyway?

“That’s how most people introduce themselves. Just for future reference.” His voice rings in my ears, drawing me back to reality. His smug little smirk is back. It melts my insides while simultaneously making me want to smack it off his beautiful face.

“So, Elizabeth, is there something I can do for you?”

“I think there’s something we can do for each other.” I try to sound confident as I play the part I’ve written for myself. I launch into my speech. I’ve rehearsed it a million times, but with his blues piercing through me it’s hard to remember. The tension around us is stifling. If he feels it, it doesn’t show. His forearms resting on the table and one side of his mouth hitched up, he seems calm and collected.